


The Fixer-Upper Club

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humor, Jealousy, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Post-War, Rebuilding Hogwarts, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 114,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27701783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Since the war, Hogwarts castle has been left in a state of disrepair, not unlike some of the students within its crumbling walls.When Hermione decides to return for an eighth year of studies, she finds herself setting out on a restorative journey that might just fix more than a few broken windows.AKA The one where Hermione and Draco rebuild the castle, themselves, and each other.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 232
Kudos: 243
Collections: 2020 Dramione 50k Classic





	1. "I Killed Voldemort, Hermione."

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me but are the property of J.K.R. and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended. Thank you to my alpha and/or beta for their time and help.  
> 

As Hermione Granger remembered it from her third year at Hogwarts, the door to the muggle studies classroom lay beyond a showroom full of muggle artifacts. They had adorned the stone walls in display cases, bright and eccentric, a testament to the triumph of non-magical invention. Vacuum cleaners, cameras, TV sets, computers, telephones, and in pride of place, a gleaming black Hackney carriage.

To anyone else, anywhere else, they would be hardly worth a second thought. But to Hermione, in a place where her muggle home felt about a million miles away, they had been priceless.

And now, as she peered into the once-familiar room, she could see nothing but smashed glass, warped metal, and scorched plastic. She blinked, a heavy feeling settling into her chest.

“Blimey, that’s a mess,” Ron murmured from somewhere behind her.

He wasn’t wrong.

Hermione gazed dubiously into the gloom, struggling to find a trace of familiarity in the destruction. For a moment she thought she could see a corner of the Hackney cab’s licence plate, but it was buried under such a layer of dust and debris that once she looked away, she proved unable to find it again.

“It was all muggle stuff in here, wasn’t it?” said Harry, apparently more to himself than anyone else. His voice was almost a whisper. “They… just destroyed it all.”

Scenes of destruction weren’t all that uncommon around the castle these days, but Hermione didn’t think she’d seen anywhere quite as bad as this. Most of the damage done during the Battle of Hogwarts had been incidental, a side effect of the tornado of hexes unleashed within its walls. But looking at the scene before her, it was clear to Hermione that whoever had caused this damage, had done so coldly, methodically, and deliberately.

Her breath stuck in her throat, like a physical pill she could never begin to swallow.

As if reading her thoughts, Harry nudged her arm. “Hermione?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. Issuing herself a stern reminder not to let anything ruin her first day back at school, Hermione straightened her shoulders and turned around to face the boys with an optimistic smile. “Well, this is it.”

Ron peered doubtfully into the wreckage. “Are you sure? It looks like Grawp had a tantrum in here.”

Her smile faltered. “I’m sure the professors will get round to clearing it up eventually. It’s probably not a priority compared to some of the other areas of the castle,” she tried matter-of-factly, hoping she sounded more certain than she felt. With another look back into the wreckage, she spotted Headmistress McGonagall through an open door on the other side of the artifact room. “I’ll, er, see you both at lunch?”

Harry gave her a goofy thumbs’ up, and Ron stepped forward to peck a kiss onto her cheek. “See you at lunch.”

* * *

Once she’d managed to cross the distressing threshold, the muggle studies classroom revealed itself to be in a much better state than its entranceway. It was a small relief, she thought, as she slid onto the nearest stool and upended the contents of her bag onto the desk. As quills, parchment, and ink bottles rolled every which way, she looked up to greet her teacher with an earnest “good morning, Professor,” as if she hadn’t just walked through what was essentially a warzone.

McGonagall wasn’t exactly known for smiling, but her eyes were warm as they met Hermione’s for the first time in several months. “Welcome back, Miss Granger,” she said. “I am pleased to see that your enthusiasm for taking as many N.E.W.T. classes as physically possible has not waned. Six subjects, was it?”

“Seven,” Hermione corrected automatically, then blushed. “I was going to do six, but I thought Muggle Studies would be excellent to add to my repertoire, just in case I wanted to apply for any Ministry jobs, you know. It’s only one extra essay a week, and I wouldn’t have to do too much research, so…”

McGonagall’s lips twitched in amusement.

Hermione began setting up her desk, pulling out her quill and spare quill and placing them neatly beside a crisp sheet of parchment. She started to write the date at the top of the page and then froze suddenly, stricken. “Professor?” she asked quietly. “Who… who will be teaching muggle studies this year?”

McGonagall met her eyes in an unspoken moment of grief. Hermione had no idea how she’d almost managed to forget about Professor Burbage, and the memory was like a knife in her gut. For what seemed like the hundredth time since the war, the threat of tears prickled under her eyelids.

It was with a slight crack to her voice that McGonagall answered. “It may be rather fortunate indeed that you have elected to take this class, Miss Granger. The allure of taking up a post as a Hogwarts Professor is not what it once was, and there are certain roles we have struggled to fill. I myself will be standing in as Professor of Muggle Studies until a suitable replacement is found, but it has been many years since I last resided within the muggle world.” She considered Hermione over the top of her spectacles. “If you do not begrudge sharing them, your experiences may be invaluable to me during this time.”

Hermione nodded silently but was prevented from responding further as the other students started to arrive, a steady hubbub of chatter filling the air. It was just as well really, she thought. She had known that the war-torn wreckage of the castle and the not-yet-forgotten treatment of muggle-borns would have affected the school’s ability to return to normal, but she was shocked that the situation was dire enough to force McGonagall into taking up a new subject. There had been dubious murmurs in the Prophet after McGonagall’s summer announcement that she would continue to teach Transfiguration during her tenure as Headmistress, and now for her to add Muggle Studies to her list of responsibilities? Incredible as she was, Hermione couldn’t help but wonder how the woman was going to cope.

She was interrupted from her thoughts when someone she hadn’t expected to see in this classroom in a million years strolled past her and headed for a desk in the corner. It was so unbelievable to see Draco Malfoy walking into a Muggle Studies lesson that for a second she was sure she had been mistaken, but as he settled himself against the stone wall on the opposite side of the room with a familiar scowl on his face, she had no choice to admit that it was definitely him.

What _was_ he doing here?

Even just looking at him was enough to fuel a spark of anger in Hermione’s chest. No matter how often she reminded herself that he wasn’t worth the energy, that he was nothing more than a cowardly school bully who never managed to stand up for himself long enough to avoid becoming a pawn in Voldemort’s game of homicidal chess, she couldn’t help herself. For sure, she (and the rest of Wizarding Britain) knew that he had had his misgivings and regrets – his trial in front of the entire Wizengamot in August had ensured that – but some feelings just didn’t go away, no matter how much time had passed. Hermione’s forearm twinged acidly where the word ‘mudblood’ remained etched into her skin.

She’d heard, of course, that Malfoy was one of the many other students in her year who had chosen to come back to Hogwarts after the war. She had grudgingly accepted that she would have to put up with him in Potions, but she had never expected to see him _here_ , not in her safe place, pulling a copy of _Gladougal’s Guide to Mighty Muggles_ out of his bag and neatly inking the day’s date at the top of a fresh roll of parchment. It simply wasn’t believable.

She clearly wasn’t the only one who thought so, as there was an obvious surge in the classroom chatter at his entrance. He must have been aware of the sideways glances he was getting, but he steadfastly ignored them all, determinedly setting his quill down and folding his arms on the desk, staring straight ahead, his chin set. A new feeling settled in Hermione’s belly, one she had never thought she would associate with Draco Malfoy.

It felt kind of like respect.

* * *

“McGonagall’s teaching Muggle Studies,” Hermione told Harry and Ron over lunch. “I don’t know how she’s going to manage, what with that, and transfiguration, and headmistress duties, and all the castle repairs still going on…”

“Maybe she’s nicked another time-turner,” Ron joked.

Harry grinned. “I think a lot of the professors are doubling up this year. Slughorn tried to convince me to join his alchemy class. Oh yeah, and I heard Flitwick’s on ancient runes.”

“Mm,” said Hermione, chewing her lip. “Things are definitely going to be strange this year.” And then, after a pause - “Malfoy’s taking Muggle Studies.”

Ron inhaled some of his pumpkin juice and Harry dove underneath the table to avoid being drenched in the ensuing coughing fit. “He’s what?” asked Harry in disbelief, upon re-emergence.

“I said, he’s taking muggle studies,” Hermione repeated, as Ron apologised profusely to a young Ravenclaw who had taken the brunt of the pumpkin spray. “He didn’t say a word, just turned up, listened, and left as soon as it was over. Really weird.”

“That is weird,” Harry confirmed. He frowned, his face creasing into an expression Hermione knew all too well – wondering what Malfoy-conceived evil plot could possibly involve attending Muggle Studies.

“Weird?” Ron scoffed. “Bloody nuts, if you ask me. How’s he going to cope with writing his first essay on the merits of the muggle sewage system?”

Hermione ignored Harry’s amused snort. “Well, he wasn’t bothered by McGonagall’s opening speech. She made it pretty clear that she wouldn’t tolerate anything less than the utmost respect. Malfoy just…took notes,” she explained.

Harry turned in his seat to search for Malfoy’s distinctive white-blonde hair at the Slytherin table. The man in question was sat alone, picking half-heartedly at his food. “He looks pretty awful, don’t you think,” Harry surmised. “All skinny and pale.”

“He’s always been skinny and pale,” said Ron insightfully.

“No, Harry’s right,” Hermione said with a frown. “He’s…gaunt. And sort of…empty, behind the eyes. Like how he looked towards the end of sixth year.”

“And we all know what he was up to then…” Ron said darkly. He and Harry exchanged a look, and Hermione turned her attention back to her lunch, wondering if perhaps she shouldn’t have brought it up.

The next time she looked over towards Malfoy, he was gone.

* * *

She thought about it more later, curled up on a sofa in the Gryffindor common room with Ron and Crookshanks, absent-mindedly watching a particularly animated game of Gobstones between two roaring third years.

As much as she hated Malfoy, at times she found it hard not to sympathise with him. Shunned by the dark side and despised by everyone else, he had no true friends or allies left at Hogwarts. None of the other Slytherins from his year had returned to school, and having seen him sitting alone, without the familiar shadows of Crabbe and Goyle at his side, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was lonely.

Ron cut through her thought process by placing a hand on her knee and squeezing gently. “What homework are you thinking about right now?” he asked with a grin.

For some reason his assumption annoyed her, despite the fact that any other time, he would probably have guessed correctly. “Just some Muggle Studies stuff,” she lied.

“Speaking of Muggle Studies, he’s not bothering you, is he? Malfoy, I mean,” Ron said suddenly. “You know if he were to even look at you wrong, I’d-” he illustrated his point with a menacing thump of a fist against his palm. “You know.”

“I know,” Hermione said, grinning. “He’s not bothering me, I promise.”

A loud roar and the fetid stink of gobstone goo from the corner alerted them to the fact that a victor had been crowned, and they laughed as a short, freckly third year paraded around the common room to the dismay of his opponent, crowing victoriously. Crookshanks sniffed as if in disgust and leapt off Hermione’s lap before stalking away.

“It’s going to be a good year, isn’t it?” Hermione asked Ron suddenly. “I mean…a better year.”

“Yeah,” says Ron. He squeezed her again, and she subtly wiggled herself out of his hold to stand up from the sofa.

“I’m off to bed,” she announced. The mild disappointment in his eyes made her cringe internally, but it only took a second for him to relax into one of his goofy grins again, bidding her goodnight with a soft kiss to her hand.

Hermione couldn’t explain the itching discomfort that had crept up her leg from his touch, and even less so why it had been happening more and more frequently over the last few weeks. But she determinedly brushed the thought away as she climbed the stairs to her dormitory.

It would get better. It was going to be a good year.

* * *

Hermione was saved from dwelling too long on any of the events of her first day back, because over the following week, every single professor seemed to suddenly start taking the advent of the N.E.W.T. exams very seriously. Even Harry and Ron, who were only taking five subjects compared to Hermione’s seven, had become inundated with essays to write, forcing all three into spending most of their free time in the library.

Being back at Hogwarts after one of the craziest years of her life felt at times like an impossible adjustment to make. Sometimes it was like she’d never left, like when she was several chapters deep into a huge textbook, or watching Ron and Harry bicker over Quidditch tactics, or delayed from finding her way to class thanks to Peeves, moving staircases, or any combination thereof. But other times, it would hit her just how odd it was to be returning to school.

They’d gone from surviving on their own out in the wilderness with no contact other than the crackly sounds of Ron’s old wireless radio, to having a school uniform, bans on magic in the corridors, and a 10pm curfew. All three of them (and likely most of the other returning eighth year students too) had become adults over the past twelve months, so the rules and restrictions of childhood seemed rather more oppressive than before.

On the other hand, Hermione thought to herself as she trotted downstairs towards the library, this time last year they had been constantly living in fear of being murdered at any time. All things considered, she wasn’t convinced that she would trade the security of the castle’s stone walls for a later bedtime.

“Watch it, Hermione!”

Ron’s yell snapped her from her thoughts, soon followed by Harry grabbing her arm to prevent her from walking forwards into a hole in the floating staircase. Heart racing, she peered down into the gap, and her stomach lurched when she realised she could see all the way down to the dungeon floor, three storeys below.

Ha! So much for security.

“Better make a note not to use this stairwell until that’s fixed,” she commented, as the three of them skirted around the metre-wide hole to carry on down the stairs. “Imagine how dangerous it could be if there were people going both directions at once.”

“We’ll have to use the clocktower staircase from now on,” suggested Harry. They reached the bottom of the stairs, the rubble of what was once a statue awaiting them. Harry grimaced as he sidestepped over an isolated marble bust. “I wonder how long it’ll be before the castle is completely back to normal.”

Hermione knew that all the professors were working overtime to try and repair the damage of the battle, but the task was just enormous. Huge areas of the castle were now completely out-of-bounds, including the entire south wing. Windows were broken, walls were caved in, and floors had become so fragile that the slightest footstep would send them crashing down. Even assessing the scope of the damage was one hell of a job, and mending it required even more mental, physical, and emotional energy. Many of their classmates, friends, and family had fought here, and far too many of them had died here. Sometimes when Hermione walked past a pile of rubble, or a shattered windowpane, it occurred to her that the wreckage was littered with memories.

“Maybe by Christmas?” Ron guessed, but with the huge amount of work to be done, and the strain of operating Hogwarts on skeleton staff alone, Hermione thought privately to herself that the professors would be extremely lucky to manage that.

* * *

Once inside the library, Ron intimidated a couple of scrawny first years away from the nice table by the windows, and the trio settled themselves in for a study session. Hermione had a big Transfiguration essay to get started on and some charts to memorise for her next Arithmancy class, so she summoned a textbook, flipped to the relevant page, and proceeded to get stuck in.

She was halfway through a particularly dense chapter on conjuring theory when she noticed someone familiar entering the library. Malfoy’s face was thin and worry-worn, a defensive frown laced across his features. As she watched, he made for one of the booths in the corner, pulled a copy of ' _Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles_ ’ from his bag, sank cautiously into a chair, and started reading avidly. His quill wavered uncertainly above an empty roll of parchment, and Hermione wondered if he might be having trouble with the essay they’d been set for next week – an analysis of muggle transport: public and personal.

Hermione realised all at once that one: she had been staring at Malfoy for a few minutes, two: Ron was watching her with an incredulous look, and three: one and two were most likely linked. Embarrassed, she ducked her head back down into her textbook, but realised soon after that she was still struggling to concentrate. She had of course written the muggle transport essay in under half an hour, brimming with comments and suggestions about the various merits of bikes, cars, and planes. However she imagined the task would be a whole lot different for someone who had never even seen a petrol-powered vehicle before. Malfoy’s frown deepened as he scratched out a line of ink.

Hermione suddenly remembered that she had seven N.E.W.T. exams to study for, none of which would grant her extra credit for being able to comment on the life and social habits of one Draco Lucius Malfoy. Resolving to put him out of her mind, she attacked her Transfiguration essay with renewed vigour.

Time passed fluidly until she started on the concluding paragraph, at which point she become aware that they must have been in the library for a fair while, because the sky beyond the windows had turned pink, and Ron and Harry were in fact no longer studying, but messing around drawing silly pictures in the corner of Harry’s Defence Against The Dark Arts textbook.

Like toddlers caught stealing biscuits from the tin, they eventually noticed her disapproving gaze and grinned sheepishly at her. “Are you defacing library property or your own this time?” she asked with a smirk, already knowing the answer.

“…the library’s,” Harry admitted.

She levelled a quick de-inking spell at the page, startling Ron, who was halfway through a drawing of a mermaid with rather unrealistic breasts.

“Oh,” said Ron disappointedly. “That was my best one yet-”

“Do you think Madam Pince would be pleased to see you disfiguring her precious books?” she scolded.

“We were hoping that Ron’s flattering drawing of her might make up for it,” Harry answered, pointing at another lewd sketch on the next page.

“Ugh!” Hermione groaned in disgust, erasing that one too, and aiming a pinching hex at Harry’s arm for good measure. “You could try focusing every once in a while, you know. Shouldn’t you be practising your Defence Against the Dark Arts?”

Harry waggled his eyebrows at her. “I _killed Voldemort_ , Hermione.” 

Ron snorted with laughter and they all dissolved into giggles, but not before Hermione managed a hefty whack to Harry’s shoulder with her Transfiguration textbook.

* * *

“Professor, do you need any help?”

Hermione had been on her way back to the common room when she passed Professor Flitwick attempting to levitate a huge chunk of rubble out of the centre of the corridor and back into a gap in the wall where it belonged. She couldn’t begin to imagine how much it weighed, and the small wizard was trembling with the effort of the spell.

He looked up in surprise at her voice, and his charm faltered enough for the wreckage to fall with a thud that shook the floor all the way back to the grand staircase.

“Oh, Miss Granger, if you could-” His cheeks were pink, his white hair wisping out from underneath his hat, and he looked far more fragile than Hermione could ever remember him looking.

She raised her wand as he did, and the monstrous expanse of cracked stone and mortar began to hover back towards its rightful place. Flitwick murmured a modified cementing charm and she watched, entranced, as the wall reformed, expanding out to welcome the replaced masonry back into its midst. Mere seconds later, the only sign to suggest the wall had ever been anything less than intact was a faint hum of magic in the air.

“Thank you! Bit less drafty now, eh?” Flitwick chirped, but his voice cracked minutely as he spoke. Taken aback, Hermione stole a glance at him, and found him staring fixedly at their handiwork as if he couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes away. Something in his expression felt very familiar to her, and she wondered if he could possibly be remembering something from the battle. God knew the hundreds of explosions that had torn the castle apart replayed often enough in her mind.

“It’s… It’s not just about putting the castle back together, is it sir?” she asked softly. “It’s harder than that.”

There was a gentle pause. “As astute as ever, Miss Granger.” He smiled sadly, his thoughts clearly far away. “People don’t have to become ghosts to leave their imprints behind.”

* * *

On Wednesday morning, ten minutes before her next Muggle Studies lesson, Hermione was packing up her belongings from yet another stint in the library. As she looked up from trying to decide whether to keep the second or third edition of ‘ _Potions That Pay’_ , she noticed Malfoy at the next table, scribbling furiously onto a dog-eared roll of parchment cross-hatched with corrections. Surreptitiously sneaking a glance as she walked by, she realised that it was the same muggle transport essay she had seen him writing before – due in today. He must have been struggling with it – why else would he still be writing it so close to the deadline?

Before she could conjure up enough reason to stop herself, she paused by his desk. “You know Malfoy, if you ever need a hand-”

Malfoy jumped about a foot out of his chair and whirled around to face her. He was clutching his parchment to his chest so tightly that his knuckles were white, even as his cheeks flamed bright pink. “I don’t need your help,” he spat, and began shoving things into his bag, taking off as fast as his legs could carry him. Hermione noticed involuntarily that the wet ink from his essay had left an imprint on his collar.

Hermione could feel her cheeks burning. How could she have been so stupid as to assume that a couple of Muggle Studies lessons might make him start treating her like a fellow human being? He would forever view her by nothing more than her muggle-born blood.

Bloody _Malfoy_ , she thought venomously, and took the long route to class to make sure she wouldn’t catch up with him.

* * *

She was still fuming when McGonagall collected the class’ essays with a flick of her wand (including Malfoy’s, who was still bent over his desk writing at the time). She then went on to introduce them to the next topic – the muggle educational system.

Hermione’s mind immediately went to her school days. She’d always had plans for her education, even as a ten-year-old. She was going to go to university and get a degree (or three) and make a difference in the world. She’d had no idea that eight years later, it was a different world she would be hoping to make a difference to.

And yet as McGonagall set about explaining what 11-year-old muggles do instead of going to Hogwarts, Hermione found herself hit by a sudden sense of grief for the muggle future she would never have. Of course, without Hogwarts, it was true that she never would have met Harry and Ron, or formed S.P.E.W., or fought in a war… but who knows what she had missed out on instead?

She would be in her last year of sixth form right now. Off to university next year.

She surfaced from her thoughts in enough time to realise that McGonagall was now talking about muggle careers and the existence of jobs that the wizarding world simply has no use for. Firefighters, scientists, _dentists_ … She felt a pang in her stomach at that.

It was simply baffling to imagine receiving this lecture without the life experience or home background she had had. It must be ludicrous to the other students that muggles would require specially trained individuals to carry out tasks that even the most primitively educated wizard could accomplish with a spell or two. Hermione wondered how her parents might feel to know that they could be replaced by any old wizard with a wand and a basic understanding of dental anatomy.

As the hour drew to a close, McGonagall cleared her throat.

“Your next essay is a creative assignment of sorts. I would like two feet of parchment from each of you, reimagining your life as it would be if you were born a muggle.”

An immediate rush of gossip followed her words, and McGonagall had to raise her voice to be heard above the din. “I would like you all to think very carefully about this task. You have one week.”

Hermione had never heard of an essay like this one being set, and unease immediately settled into her stomach. She wasn’t sure how easy it would be to think about how different her life would be if she had never set foot in this castle. The curse scar on her forearm began to itch.

As the class started to file out, the only person who Hermione thought looked even more taken aback by the essay title than herself was Malfoy. She smirked softly to herself.

‘Serves you right,’ she thought. ‘Have fun pretending you’re not still a bigoted prick with _this_ one.’

* * *

Hermione spent most of the evening up in her dormitory in fits of giggles. As she and Parvati were the only Gryffindor girls to return as eighth years in September, McGonagall had decided to move them into the same dorm as the seventh years. Though she’d initially been reluctant to share with strangers, she soon realised one of those ‘strangers’ was Ginny, so perhaps it wouldn’t be all bad. Since then, she’d realised that it was actually wonderfully refreshing to have a group of girls to hang out with when she’d had enough of the boys.

The cause for most of the giggles that evening came about thanks to a bottle of magical nail polish that one of the seventh years had brought from home. It was supposed to change colour according to the wearer’s mood, but the colour-guide had been lost somewhere between King’s Cross and Scotland, so the girls were taking turns applying it to one another’s nails and guessing what the resulting colour might mean. Hermione was pretty sure it was a load of rubbish, but her scepticism was far outweighed by her enjoyment in guessing what Ginny’s bright-green-with-white-polka-dots nails might say about her emotional state.

“Ooh, mine have gone lilac! What do you think that means?” Parvati squealed suddenly, thrusting her hand in front of Ginny’s face.

“I heard somewhere that lilac means ‘first love’,” suggested a seventh year with choppy blonde hair and yellow nails.

Parvati snorted. “The only thing I’ve fallen in love with at Hogwarts is the lemon meringue pie.”

There were enthusiastic noises of assent around the room at this. “What about you, Ginny?” Hermione asked, smiling. “Does your love extend only to pastries, or do you think maybe Harry has a chance?”

Ginny scratched her nose nervously, a faint red hue settling over her cheeks. “He may do,” she murmured coyly, as the other girls cooed in delight.

“You’re very sweet together,” decided another girl. “You have my full support as long as he never _ever_ spends the night in this room.”

Ginny flushed pink from her neck all the way up to her hairline.

“A silencing charm is a girl’s best friend,” whispered Parvati, and Hermione was fairly sure that the subsequent raucous laughter must have been audible all the way down in the common room.

“We’ve not done anything like that!” Ginny protested, but her nails almost immediately began changing to a pinky-red colour that matched her blush, and this sent the girls into hysterics all over again.

“What about you, Hermione? I bet you and Ron were up to all sorts last year,” Parvati said suddenly, turning the conversation around with a wiggle of her eyebrows that made Hermione laugh despite her mortification at the new subject matter. “I heard some interesting things about a tent-”

“ _Gross_ you guys, that’s my brother!” Ginny wailed.

Hermione grinned at her, grateful for the excuse not to talk about her sex life. Well, if you could call it that. She didn’t know exactly what rumours Parvati had heard about the previous year’s tent escapades, but she and Ron hadn’t even kissed at that point, let alone tried anything of _that_ nature. And in truth, that status had barely changed in the months since.

They had kissed, of course. But as for anything more than that… Well... Any time they’d ever gotten close to anything like that, she had frozen up and asked Ron to stop. He always stopped, always listened to her, never pushed for more than she was willing to give.

But Hermione wondered how long he would truly be willing to wait.

She would feel ready eventually. She was sure of it. It was just a matter of waiting for the right time.

Right?

She glanced down at her nails and decided not to think about what it meant that they had turned white.

* * *

It must have been well past midnight when Hermione awoke with a start. At first there seemed to be nothing but the sound of wind outside the window, Crookshanks snoring from his spot at the foot of the bed, and the odd hoot from the direction of the owlery, but after a moment, Hermione realised that she could hear noise coming from the next bed.

She listened for a while, unsure what she could be hearing, until it suddenly dawned on her that it was the sound of someone crying.

It was very soft, as if they were trying not to disturb anyone, but the shaky breaths were so heart-rending Hermione that couldn’t ignore them. She slowly pushed the covers back and slipped out of bed.

 _Parvati_.

The sobs continued as she tiptoed across the room towards her bed, bare feet driving squeaks from the floorboards. “Parvati?” she asked softly. The cries stopped abruptly.

A shaky hand pushed back the drapes, and then Parvati’s face appeared, blotchy and tear-stained. Her lip trembled ashamedly.

“Are you okay?” Hermione asked, unsure quite what to say. It seemed to be the wrong thing, because Parvati’s face crumpled, but when Hermione clambered onto her bed, she surged forward to bury her face against her chest, and burst into fresh tears. With no idea what to do, Hermione settled for stroking her hair and her back as the younger girl sobbed out her grief into her nightshirt.

The two of them had never been the closest of friends at Hogwarts, but there was a special kind of kinship that had sprung up between them since their return as the only eighth year Gryffindor girls. And so even though Hermione didn’t know when Parvati’s birthday was, or what her favourite colour was, or why she would be crying alone in the early hours of the morning, she knew that she would hold her as long as she needed it.

Time passed by unobtrusively as Parvati’s sobs slowly faded. Hermione didn’t want to pry, but after a while, Parvati leaned back, eyes blurred with tears, and looked up at her.

“I miss her so much,” she choked out. “Lavender.”

Hermione’s heart jolted.

Parvati and Lavender had been inseparable. They had gone to every class together, eaten every meal together, and spent every night gossiping together, long after Hermione fell asleep. Hermione thought back to the last time she had seen Lavender, and the image of her mangled body in Fenrir Greyback’s hands stung her eyelids as if she was seeing it all over again.

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione whispered inadequately, and then they were both crying, clinging to one another like it was the only thing that could help. She couldn’t stop remembering the curse she had fired to fling the werewolf away, remembering how Lavender had barely moved, remembering how she was too late.

“Stay with me?” Parvati asked, an indeterminable amount of time later, and Hermione nodded without even having to think as she pulled the duvet around them. It was quiet except for the sound of their other roommates softly snoring.

Hermione settled herself into Parvati’s bedsheets, finding her hand clasping hers. And she prepared to go back to sleep, in the bed of a girl she barely knew, in a school that was recently a warzone, in a world still aching from the loss of its families and friends.

She took a long, deep breath, and closed her eyes.

Just as she was about to drift off, she heard Parvati’s voice. “I don’t think the nail polish was lilac,” came the whisper. There was a vulnerable pause. “I think it was lavender.”


	2. "Bring me raisins and I'll hex you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for joining me in chapter two!  
> As a reminder, this story is rated M for non-explicit sexual content, adult themes, and language.  
> This chapter contains a short Ron/Hermione scene, so please skip this if it is not your thing.

“You did what?” exclaimed Ron the next morning, treating Hermione to a lovely glimpse of the food in his mouth. With the dark speckles between his teeth, she guessed (or maybe hoped) it was black pudding.

“Offered to help Malfoy with his muggle studies work,” Hermione repeated nonchalantly, reaching for a slice of toast. “He said no, of course,” she added, as Harry and Ron continued to stare at her in disbelief.

“Earth to Hermione? This is _the Draco Malfoy_ right? The one who bullied you for seven years and made me spew slugs for weeks? The one you punched in the face?”

Hermione grinned as she recalled that particular memory. “Yes, that one. Although I don’t think the slugs were technically his fault-”

“Malfoy the amazing bouncing ferret?” Ron carried on, undeterred.

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s still an arse,” she acknowledged. “But I felt like even _he_ might deserve some help. Imagine how much you’d struggle, Ron, if you were asked to write about how a plane works?”

“I don’t know how a plane works either,” was Harry’s contribution, through a mouthful of porridge. Ginny snickered. Hermione ignored them both.

“Look, it’s not like you need to worry. He reacted pretty similarly to the way you guys did, to be honest, so I don’t think I’m going to be overwhelmed by homework help requests any time soon.”

“They’re just jealous about you doing anyone else’s homework but theirs,” Ginny grinned.

Ron looked offended. “Sh’up Ginny. I did my own Charms homework last night and all.”

“Only because Hermione blew you off-”

Harry, who had been zoning out of the conversation, jerked awake as if electrocuted, and nearly swallowed his spoon. “Hermione _what_ –?!”

“Harry, we’ve _talked_ about you only listening to half of the conversation…” Ginny said impishly, and she and Hermione burst out laughing.

She could pinpoint the exact moment that Ron got the joke, because the tips of his ears went pink.

“Anyway, I’m going to go and get ready for class,” Ginny said, getting up from her seat and brushing herself off. She bent to kiss Harry’s cheek and grinned at them all. “See you tonight Harry? Have a good day everyone!”

Hermione was watching Ginny skip away when she noticed Ron level his fork at Harry. “What are you and Ginny up to this evening?” he asked suspiciously.

Harry looked immediately sheepish. “We were just going to go for a walk around the grounds-”

Ron frowned. “As long as she’s back in bed before curfew-”

“Oh, come off it Ron,” Hermione scolded. “Ginny and Harry are perfectly within their rights to hang out when they please. How would you like it if Percy started monitoring _our_ whereabouts?”

Harry looked pleased, while Ron looked deeply affronted and muttered something into his second plate of bacon that she couldn’t quite hear, but sounded awfully like “I’d deck ‘im.”

“Look, why don’t we do something together tonight? You know, just us?” she suggested. “To...distract you?”

She immediately realised what it sounded as if she was insinuating when Ron’s face went beet red and Harry slid rapidly down the bench to join a conversation with Neville, who was at that moment deep in discussion with Luna Lovegood about her new set of mini-artichoke-shaped earrings.

“I didn’t mean like that,” she said quickly. “I just meant like... hang out. Like a date.”

Ron swallowed hard before giving her an amused grin. “I’d like that. I’ve got Quidditch tryouts at six, how does eight sound?”

She considered her schedule. “Yeah, that’s good, I was planning to study until then anyway. Do you want to meet me in the library when you’re ready?”

“Perfect.” Ron grinned at her, then hollered down the table. “Harry, mate, you’re alright, it wasn’t anything weird, you can come back-”

Luna looked up at him. “Did you know that You-Know-Who was allergic to artichokes?” she asked mildly. Ron froze, looking at her as if she had sprouted a second head. Hermione had to press a hand to her mouth to keep from snorting.

There was a pause as they all looked at one another. Then:

“Imagine that, Harry,” Neville said seriously, eyes shining with mirth. “All that fuss about killing the snake, and you could have just lobbed an artichoke at him.”

And suddenly they were all laughing too hard for anything more to be said.

* * *

That evening, Hermione opted to take an early dinner in the great hall. Though Harry, Ron, and Ginny were nowhere to be found (Quidditch tryouts, she assumed), she spotted Seamus, Neville, and Parvati at the Gryffindor table and made a beeline for them. Parvati greeted her with a warm hug, the memory of the night before making them both smile, as if with a shared secret. As she sat down to heap some wonderfully aromatic curry onto her plate, Luna and Padma joined them from the Ravenclaw table, and the conversation was soon alive with stories and jokes.

Hermione really liked how the house system seemed a little more relaxed this year. People only tended to sit in their assigned house tables during celebratory feasts; every other mealtime saw a complete assortment of different students sat at each table. It was even becoming commonplace to see students from other houses in the Gryffindor common room – particularly Luna Lovegood, whose near-constant presence has become an equal source of both hilarity and confusion amongst the Gryffindors. The school seemed to be bursting with an inter-house unity that Hermione hadn’t felt since the Yule Ball, all those years ago.

Parvati was showing off her nail polish – today, a sunny yellow speckled with glitter – when Hermione spooned the last forkful of rice into her mouth and clambered off the bench. A quick goodbye and an encouraging smile at Parvati, and then she was off to the library to get started on some of her outstanding work.

First up, her muggle studies essay. What would her life be like if she were a muggle? Hm. She pulled her parchment towards her and started writing.

Twenty minutes later, she was so deep in considering all the hundreds of ‘what ifs’ that the essay had brought up, that when she looked up and noticed Malfoy sat at the next table, she jumped so suddenly she sprayed ink blots all over her parchment.

She let out an irritated ‘ _tch’_ before she could help herself, and Malfoy looked up, startled. Panic shooting through her, she put her head back down and stared fixedly at her essay as if the constellation of ink smears across its surface held the answers to the universe. It was times like this that she was thankful for her ridiculous hair – with any luck, Malfoy wouldn’t see her burning face.

A de-inking charm, several paragraphs and a mostly reduced blush later, Hermione had nearly forgotten about her embarrassment; that was until:

“ _Pst_.”

For a second she thought it could have been Malfoy, which was obviously impossible. She stared down at the sentence in front of her: ‘ _the age of eighteen brings with it a whole new world of rights and responsibilities for many muggle adolescents_ -’, wondering how to continue, when it happened again.

“ _Granger_.”

This time, she knew she wasn’t imagining it. She looked up slowly, suspiciously, and met Malfoy’s eyes. He was sitting slouched at the next table, his furrowed eyebrows bearing an expression of the greatest annoyance, as if he would rather be drinking flobberworm mucus than talking to her.

“What’s…” he tried. “What’s the muggle equivalent of a…like a… a potion maker?”

She gaped dumbly at him, too shell-shocked that he was asking her for help to respond.

He took one look at her blank expression and his face fell into a scowl. “Forget it-”

“Wait, um, I’m not sure. Perhaps an… experimental chef?”

Malfoy looked outraged. “A cook?! You think I’d want to be some sort of house elf?! Are you _mad_?”

“Well, don’t ask me for my opinion then!” Hermione spat, incensed, turning back to her parchment with such venom that her quill stabbed a hole right through it.

There was silence. Hermione tried to finish writing, but her mind was racing too much to focus. White-hot anger fizzed in her fingertips.

“How about alchemy?” Malfoy asked quietly.

She ignored him, teeth gritted, and turned over a page of the textbook she wasn’t even reading.

Another pause. Then, to her utter disbelief: “…Please, Granger.”

Hermione looked up at him in shock, anger forgotten.

“I…this essay is ridiculous. I can’t find the answer in any of the textbooks. Please?” His voice was so soft that she could barely hear him, but the frustration in his words was loud and clear.

“Most people might try saying sorry first,” Hermione said, shaking her hair away from her face and fixing him with a determined stare.

Twin spots of pink bloomed high on his cheekbones. “You’ve gotten a please from me, Granger, that’s already more than the last seven years put together.”

She stared at him. There was something in his eyes that looked for a moment as if he might laugh, and she had to look away to make sure she didn’t encourage him. 

“Are there muggle alchemists?” he asked, undeterred.

Begrudgingly, she considered this. “I suppose…maybe chemists? As in muggle scientists that deal specifically with the properties of chemical substances and how they interact?”

Malfoy thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, that sounds about right.” And then, stiffly, as if it pained him: “Thank you.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up towards her hairline, but she couldn’t hide the astonished grin that accompanied it. “You’re welcome.”

And then they went back to their individual essays and didn’t speak again all evening.

* * *

“Alright, Hermione?”

She looked up to see Ron grinning down at her. “Yep!” she responded brightly, rolling up her parchment and stowing her quill away. “I’ve managed to finish my muggle studies essay, and I think I’ve finally got that Arithmancy chart memorised, goodness knows it took me long enough.”

“You do know it’s only the second week of term, right?” said Ron, and she rolled her eyes at him as she hoisted her bag over her shoulder and stood up.

“How were tryouts?” she asked.

Ron positively beamed, spreading his arms wide. “You’re looking at the reinstated Gryffindor keeper of 1998-99.”

“Congratulations!” Hermione cried, wrapping her arms round him in a hug, as he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

And then he was off, detailing every spectacular save he had made that afternoon. Apparently he had even managed to save some quaffles thrown by his sister (a fact he repeated several times), which even Hermione knew was no small feat. She smiled, listening to him babble, and thought for a moment that she had spotted Malfoy staring at them as they left the library.

“Right then, any plans?” Ron asked. They had reached the foot of the grand staircase, and as Hermione looked up at the windows she could see that the sky outside was amber with twilight.

“Let’s go outside,” she suggested. “Take a walk.”

Ron took her hand and they headed through the huge wooden doors, tracing the path down to Hagrid’s hut, just like old times. The ebbing sun at the horizon had bathed everything in a warm syrupy glow that made her feel especially nostalgic, and as they walked in silence, she revelled quietly in the sense of ease spreading over her skin like warm honey.

Ron squeezed her hand. “So…what did you get up to last night?”

“One of Ginny’s friends brought us some nail polish to try on. It’s supposed to change colour with your mood, but it’s a load of rubbish really.”

“Let’s have a look?”

She showed him her nails and the earthy brown colour that currently adorned them. “I think maybe the charm is wearing off – it was silver yesterday.”

“Sounds like fun,” Ron said, grinning at her.

They carried on through the grounds, turning left to follow a path around the great lake. “Something sad happened afterwards, though,” Hermione said, without having planned to.

“Mm?”

She looked at the ground under her feet, unsure how to continue. “It… It was Parvati. She’s really missing Lavender, you know. I didn’t realise how hard it would be for her, coming back to Hogwarts without her best friend.” She tucked a stray curl of hair behind her ear, frowning. “I heard her crying after we’d all gone to bed and I went to see what was wrong. She didn’t want to be alone, so I ended up staying with her for the rest of the night. I think she really appreciated it, because-”

“You slept in her bed?” Ron interrupted, eyes goggling.

“Well, yeah? It’s not a big deal, really. She just needed someone to be there for her. But anyway, when I saw her at dinner-”

“But you slept in a bed…together?!” he pressed, his expression caught between shock and delight. _Boys_ , Hermione thought despairingly.

“Ron, will you _please_ stay focused?”

“Sorry.”

She shouldered him lightly. “If it helps, we slept back to back, I was in my ugliest set of pyjamas, and Parvati snores like a Hippogriff.”

Ron grinned. “You mean the pink pyjamas with the little cartoon puffskeins on them?”

“Yes, those.”

He let out a theatrical groan. “Oh, Hermione, you _know_ I’ve always thought they were sexy-”

“Stop it!” she laughed, shoving him off course and taking off down the path. Stealing a glance back at Ron, she grinned at the delighted expression he allowed himself before coming charging after her.

Shrieking, Hermione pelted as fast as she could along the bank until Ron effortlessly caught up with her, bringing them both thudding down onto the grass. After settling down more comfortably, their breathing returned gradual to normal as they gazed out across the dark waters of the great lake, the air silent.

“I didn’t realise how sad I would get, thinking about Lavender,” Hermione said softly, after a moment. “It just really hit me when I saw Parvati-”

“I know what you mean,” said Ron immediately, and Hermione found herself feeling a little taken aback by the interruption. “When Fred… after Fred died, I felt like I was numb. It wasn’t until I saw mum’s reaction, and then…then it really got me.”

She stayed silent, watching how the wind formed the surface of the water into small glassy waves that rippled excitedly onto the shore.

“With being here at Hogwarts, I kind of forget about it, most of the time. And I just assume that Fred is with George at the shop, like always…but then I remember, and it sort of feels like I’m seeing him lying there in the great hall for the first time again,” he continued.

Hermione leant her head onto his shoulder, her chest once again heavy with grief. “I’m so sorry Ron. It must be so difficult to adjust to when you’re not with your family.” She paused for a moment. “I’m glad that I’ve got you and Harry here as my family, when I don’t have my parents to-”

“We’ll always be your family, Hermione. Merlin knows how I would have coped without mine.”

She knew that Ron was trying his best, but she still struggled not to mind that he kept cutting her off when she started trying to talk about what was really bothering her.

But he was the one grieving here. Yes, her parents were somewhere on the opposite side of the world, and no, they didn’t remember her, and no, she wouldn’t have time to look for them until she’d finished school, and she was scared that she might never find them, and that in that case she would have no other family left…

She stopped suddenly, ashamed. At least her parents were safe. They were alive.

Ron had lost a brother. And he would never be coming back.

So she swallowed her words, all her worries and fears, all the things she desperately wanted to sob into someone’s shoulder and be comforted for, and concentrated on being there for Ron. Because he needed her. And she was sure that he would be there for her when she needed him. Right?

She rubbed a soothing hand up and down Ron’s back and stared out across the lake as the last strip of sunlight peeled away from the sky.

* * *

“Hermione…” Ron breathed, fingertips trailing down her side.

They were curled up together in his bed, the hangings drawn tightly shut, a _muffliato_ placed around the perimeter. Ron was propped up above her, their legs entwined, his lips soft but demanding. Hermione felt suddenly very exposed in her bra and skirt, even though she was more covered than him.

 _It’s Ron_ , she told herself. _It’s only Ron_.

She obliged when he dipped down to kiss her, resting hesitant hands on his hips. He leaned back to look at her, smiling. “You’re gorgeous,” he said, and then he was kissing her again before she had time to blush.

 _It’s only Ron_. She couldn’t understand why all she could think about was that her mouth was dry, and she was struggling to catch her breath with his weight on top of her, and Ron still smelt a little sweaty from tryouts, and her hair was trapped under his shoulder, and she didn’t quite like the way his tongue felt against her lips, and her feverish pulse was making her feel itchy and nauseous, and Ron’s hand was on her breast, and she felt trapped. Her heart pounded with worry, and she kissed Ron harder, desperate to damp it down.

“Can I?” he whispered, his thumbs on the waistband of her skirt, and though her head was filled with _no_ , she nodded, eyes squeezed shut. The itchiness was threatening to overwhelm her, so she pushed it back and let Ron pull her skirt off. He kissed a trail down her stomach and his fingers brushed against her underwear, his breath hot against her-

“I’m on my period,” she said quickly. She was immediately angry with herself for lying, but she couldn’t bear the thought of Ron putting his mouth there for the first time, not now, not while there was a lump the size of a chocolate frog in her throat, not while her skin was closing inwards on her like this. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed hard enough to split apart at the seams. _It’s only Ron_.

Ron reluctantly pulled away and crawled back up to kiss her again. “Sorry,” he said. His lips trailed softly across her jaw. “What…what do you want to do?”

His fingers fluttered questioningly at the waistband of her knickers, and she felt suddenly paralysed.

“I’m… I’m sorry Ron. Can we just… keep kissing?”

She could tell from the look on his face that it wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for, but he smiled nonetheless, and pulled her close to press a kiss to her cheek. “Of course. You know I’ll wait for you.”

“I know,” she responded, trying a smile.

The smile he gave her in return was warm and kind, and far more than she deserved. Hermione pulled her hair out from where it had gotten trapped under his shoulder and leaned in to kiss him again. When their lips slotted together, and his palm was gentle on her hip, and the noises in his throat were soft and encouraging, Hermione could forget about her fear. It was nice. It was familiar.

It was right.

Right?

* * *

“Nice lovebite, Granger.”

“Shut your mouth,” Hermione responded delicately, taking a seat.

Malfoy leered at her from the next table. “Looks like someone didn’t get much sleep last night,” he drawled.

He was right about the lack of sleep, but not the reason why.

She ignored him.

It was Saturday morning, and after waking up in Ron’s bed a couple of hours ago, Hermione had kissed him a quick goodbye and made her way back to her own room. She had felt altogether quite embarrassed about the night before, and had slipped away before the guilt could set in.

Deciding to try and ground her scattered emotions, Hermione had freshened herself up, apologised to an affronted-looking Crookshanks, grabbed her Potions textbook, and headed straight to the library for some personal recuperation in the name of studying. And of course, Malfoy was there. It made a sick kind of ironic sense that on the day she most needed space to breathe, he’d be there. Being a prat, as per usual.

Not to be intimidated away from some much-needed quiet time, she pulled her textbook towards her and spent longer than technically necessary finding the chapter she needed. The chapter in question was all about how clockwise or anticlockwise stirring affected the final properties of a potion, and it was fascinating stuff, but mostly she was just glad to have the distraction.

Not that Ron and Harry would understand it for a second, but Hermione found that throwing herself into schoolwork could be really cathartic. It forced her to think logically, comforted her with its familiarity, and took her mind off any other worries. All in all, a morning session in the library could just be exactly what she needed to encourage her heart to accept what her head had: that last night was a panicky reaction over nothing, and that things would be easier next time.

A couple of hours and 18 inches of parchment on stirring theory later, she was feeling much more settled. A quick glance over at Malfoy, hunched at his desk with ‘Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles’ open in front of him, confirmed that he was still working on that ‘if I were a muggle’ essay. She wondered idly how he could be getting on, now that he’d decided that muggle Draco would become a chemist.

He would be trying to apply for university now, she thought. Probably one of the old traditional ones, or perhaps some fancy foreign college. Chemistry would be a three year course; she wondered what modules he would pick, whether he’d enjoy experimental or organic chemistry, or maybe-

She pulled herself back with a start and took a moment to remind herself that she _didn’t care_.

Thanks to her stint in the library yesterday, the only other bit of work left to do that weekend was an analysis of the properties of _Dendritica_ leaves in curse wound dressings. It was part of a really interesting module on medicinal Herbology that had made her think that she might enjoy a career as a healer. But she was hesitant to start the essay just yet, because then that would leave her with nothing left to occupy her time – and her thoughts – for the rest of the weekend. And there were a fair few thoughts that she would rather spend her weekend being distracted from.

Annoyed by her own indecisiveness but too stubborn to make a choice just yet, she decided to procrastinate by finding a pamphlet on career options post-Hogwarts. But as soon as she stood, a wave of dizziness crashed down around her ears, her vision going dark, and she was forced to crouch to the floor with her head between her knees. She grimaced into her robes. Thanks, vascular system, she thought, for reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything since the night before.

When the roaring in her ears had faded, she looked up to see Malfoy half-out of his seat, eyes wide. As soon as their eyes met, he sat abruptly back down with a thump that knocked all his parchment onto the floor.

“I’m fine-” she started to say.

“I didn’t ask,” he snapped, looking sharply away.

Hermione watched him fumble at his parchment as she slowly stood up. “You don’t have to lash out at me, you know. I didn’t trick you into anything,” she said crossly.

His silver eyebrows settled into an even deeper frown before he took a breath and composed himself. “No, you didn’t.”

It was the closest to an apology she thought she would ever get.

She smirked to herself. Victory.

“I’m going to head down to the great hall to get some food,” she said, and he shrugged dispassionately. Alright. “Would you mind keeping an eye on my things so I don’t have to take them with me? I’ll only be twenty minutes.”

He didn’t reply, but it wasn’t like there was much chance of her things being stolen from the library at 11am on a Saturday morning in September, so she turned to leave nonetheless.

“What will you give me in return?”

Aha. A second victory. She didn’t turn around, but grinned into her hair instead, where he couldn’t see her. “A Danish pastry?” she suggested, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

There was silence as he considered this for a moment. “Only if it’s one of the custard ones. Bring me raisins and I’ll hex you.”

She left the library before she could start laughing, which was harder than she had imagined. Malfoy hated raisins. Who knew they had something in common?

* * *

When she got back, pink in the face from being teased by Dean and Seamus about the love bite on her neck, Malfoy was leaning back in his chair, reading, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Double checking that Madam Pince wasn’t lurking nearby, Hermione set a plate down in front of him.

“That was twenty-five minutes,” Malfoy said without looking up.

“Good thing I brought you two pastries then,” she replied smugly.

It didn’t feel like a victory this time, she realised. It was a truce.

* * *

Malfoy finished his muggle studies essay in the next hour or so without any input from Hermione. She was dying to know what he could have written about, but she was also aware that it would most likely just make her angry. No doubt every sentence would hint at his life of prejudice. Still, when he packed away his things and swept out of the library before she had worked out how to covertly ask what he’d written, she couldn’t help but feel cheated.

When Hermione finally decided to call it a day and head back to the Common Room, she passed an exhausted-looking Professor Sprout along the way, murmuring spells as if in a trance. Every waft of her wand sent streams of scattered wood splinters fluttering back up into their rightful place in the roof. “What are you doing out of bed at this time, Miss Granger?” she called sleepily after Hermione as she passed.

Hermione turned back to her, frowning. “Professor? It’s… almost 1pm.”

Professor Sprout jerked awake, her tall hat nearly leaping off her head. “It… So it is! Goodness, have I really been going all night?” she asked, staring up into the rafters above.

“You’ve done a wonderful job,” Hermione said kindly, and the professor flushed.

“Well, off to bed with you, Miss Granger. Oh, no, I… Gosh. Well. Perhaps _I_ should be off to bed,” she mumbled tiredly. And then she trudged away, a trail of air-borne splinters bobbing after her like a troop of ducklings.

Hermione felt very suddenly and desperately sorry for the Hogwarts professors who were having to work overtime to try and restore the castle to its former glory. Every single one of them seemed stretched to the limit, and Hermione couldn’t begin to imagine the emotional load they must be shouldering.

She pointed her wand at the splinters, which were at that moment following Professor Sprout’s hat merrily around a corner. Summoning them towards herself, she racked her brains for an appropriate spell, and then with a simple incantation, guided them back up into the rafters where they belonged. An idea popped into her mind as they slotted neatly back into place, and she hurried on back to the Gryffindor tower.

* * *

“Are you serious?”

Hermione scowled at Ron as if it could knock the incredulous look off his face. “Of course I am! You’ve seen for yourself how much strain the professors are under at the moment…why shouldn’t we try to help?”

Ginny was frowning into the fire from her cross-legged position on the rug. “I don’t know Hermione… Reconstruction charms are complicated things. Wouldn’t messing around with them just be overly risky for the sake of it. What if we cause more damage?”

“Not to mention that all the worst-hit areas are out-of-bounds to us anyway,” Harry added.

“Since when has that stopped us? Ever?” Hermione demanded.

Harry looked at the floor.

“As far as I’m concerned,” she said, “the professors need our help. I know our restorative magic could use some work, and we’d probably require some extra study to become competent, and we’d need to work after curfew in areas that are out of bounds… but wouldn’t it be exciting? It would be like some kind of secret club all over again – helping return Hogwarts to its former glory!”

Despite her passionate speech, the small crowd in front of her didn’t look so sure. Harry and Ginny were exchanging glances, Neville was avoiding looking at her directly, Ron was wearing a puzzled expression, and Luna had gone back to her crossword in the Quibbler.

“So you’re basically saying that we should study a difficult area of magic usually left to experts, get out of bed after hours, go to areas of the castle that have been warded off for our own safety, and attempt to rebuild the castle with very limited knowledge?” said Ginny slowly.

Hermione folded her arms, feeling a blush break out over her cheeks. “Well, yes.”

Neville was first to break the awkward silence that followed. “I…I’m sorry Hermione. It’s just that I’m having to work hard enough already just to keep up with all this N.E.W.T. level stuff, and it’s only week three. I don’t think I have any more room in my brain.”

“I don’t think it’s right to meddle in the professors’ process for rebuilding the castle,” explained Ginny.

“I’m already struggling to keep up with homework-” said Harry.

“I’m pretty busy with Quidditch-” started Ron.

“I heard the call of a purple-toed Fellyjay from the South corridor,” said Luna.

Everyone turned to look at her.

“Haven’t you heard of a Fellyjay? They can be quite dangerous, you know, if you don’t know how to handle them. I imagine the corridor’s been roped off for a reason.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well, yes, it has. And that reason is that the floor’s fallen through. But just think, if we could only repair it, that means that we could access the south wing-”

“I’m pretty sure it’s because of the Fellyjay,” said Luna thoughtfully, already back in her crossword.

Hermione struggled for a response. “Well, er, in the absence of any concrete proof as to the existence of Fellyjays in the South corridor or anywhere else, what’s wrong with going down there and simply…trying?” she looked round at their reluctant faces, and something in her cracked. “Please? Please, I just… I want to _try_.”

She hated the pitiful way her voice broke, and she was almost on the point of wishing that the floor would open up beneath her, but the atmosphere seemed to soften all of a sudden.

“How about…just once?” suggested Harry hesitantly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “One night down in the south corridor... Just to see if it’s possible.”

Despite the palpable unease in the room, Harry’s words seemed to have done the trick. One by one, everyone slowly agreed to help, and the decision was made. Monday night, 11pm. Even though everyone had only agreed to attempt repairs the once, Hermione had high hopes that on the night, the thrill of rule-bending coupled with their eventual success, might just get them all completely on board with the plan. And from there… well, the professors wouldn’t have to be on their own anymore.

Hermione couldn’t help thinking about her parents. Hogwarts, for the time being, was her only home. And her only home was currently in a state of such disrepair that every time she rounded a corner, she would see another site of destruction. Every shattered window, every stained tapestry, every fallen-in roof, they bored a hole in her chest that only got worse the longer she failed to do something about it. She wouldn’t let her home stay like this.

She had to help rebuild the castle before she found her parents. Because then at least if she didn’t succeed in recovering their memories… She-

“Right then, what spells are we going to need to learn?” Ron asked.

Hermione spiralled back down to Earth, blinking rapidly. “I, er, think I know some of the basics, but just to make sure, let me check the library…” she said, and as if that was the exact answer they’d been expecting, everyone broke into knowing laughter. She blushed.

* * *

By Sunday evening, Hermione had managed to get up everyone up to scratch on some basic repairing, reattaching, and replenishing charms. They had definitely all been attracting more than their fair share of funny looks as they took it in turns to break and repair various items around the common room, but the atmosphere was electric. It felt just like a DA meeting all over again.

On their way down to the great hall for dinner, Hermione overheard a soft snigger from Ginny, and looked over just in time to watch her point her wand at Ron’s face and whisper the sealing charm Hermione had just spent the last twenty minutes teaching her. Ron’s eyelids immediately sealed themselves shut, and he yelped and dove sideways into a suit of armour which leapt back with a testy ‘ _really_!’

The Gryffindors reached the great hall with tears in their eyes from laughing so much (with the small exception of an un-sealed Ron, who refused to lower his shield charm even when he sat down to eat). Over dinner, Ginny wasted no time in seeing what else she could ‘seal’, resulting in dismay from Neville as his lips became sealed around his fork, delighted laughter from Luna as her latest pair of Spectrespecs sealed around her forehead like a tiara, and a disgruntled squeak from Harry as something not visible to the rest of them sealed shut.

“I wonder if I can get any of the Slytherins from here,” Ginny said wickedly, giddy with power. “Oh look, why don’t I seal that apple to Malfoy’s mouth when he next takes a bite?”

“Oh, don’t!” Hermione said, before she had thought about it.

Ginny blinked at her. “It’s only Malfoy, Hermione.”

“Yeah, I know, I just…” she tailed off, realising that she actually didn’t know why she was opposed to Ginny playing a harmless prank. “Never mind.”

“How’s he been in Muggle Studies lately?” Ron asked nonchalantly, his _protego_ falling just long enough for Ginny to seal his fingers to the table.

“Not that bad, actually. He doesn’t contribute in class, so I don’t know whether he’s taking any of it on board or not, but he seems to be spending a lot of time on his homework,” Hermione summarised, unsealing him with a wry grin at Ginny.

Ron snorted, apparently unaware of his role in the girls’ battle. “I reckon every time he writes the word ‘muggle-born’ instead of, _you know_ , he has an identity crisis. That might slow him down a bit.”

Everyone laughed, but Hermione looked back over to Malfoy at the Slytherin table. He was sat on his own again, though whether that was by choice or circumstance, she wasn’t too sure. She realised that she was absurdly starting to feel rather sorry for him, and just as she had started up an internal debate over whether that was right or wrong, Malfoy suddenly looked up, and their eyes met.

Anticipating a rude comment, she looked away again.

“I wonder if McGonagall made him take the subject,” Luna suggested.

Surprisingly for Luna, her idea wasn’t all that implausible. But Hermione didn’t respond, even as everyone else around the table agreed. She couldn’t explain why, but she had the strangest gut feeling that taking Muggle Studies had been Malfoy’s choice.

* * *

On Monday, Hermione was delighted to find out that she had received an O in her ‘if I were a muggle’ essay. McGonagall had added some helpful suggestions that she immediately started poring through, and she was so invested that she nearly forget to eavesdrop as Malfoy received his essay back, two tables away.

She looked up just in time to see McGonagall handing him back a sheet of parchment with a clear green ‘O’ inked at the top. “Very insightful,” she commented softly, and Malfoy flushed with pride as she moved on to the next desk.

It was all she could do to stop her mouth opening in surprise.

Insightful? Malfoy? On an essay about muggle life?

For reasons she didn’t want to fathom, she was filled with annoyance, and she glowered down at her essay, the ‘O’ at the top suddenly much less satisfying. She couldn’t wait for the end of class so she could stalk down to the greenhouses for Herbology and get as far away from him as possible.

Even as the muggle studies lesson moved onto wizard-muggle communications, she struggled to let go of the feeling of injustice in her stomach. What on earth could Malfoy possibly have written to merit such praise from McGonagall? How could he possibly have talked about being a muggle without a trace of his bigoted prejudices coming through? She tried to sneak a glimpse at his paper, but it had already been packed away. Malfoy caught her looking as she did so, and her elbow slipped off the desk in embarrassment. The annoyance in her stomach swelled to outright dislike as he grinned.

Their essay for the following week was to be a review of wizard interference in the muggle world over the last century, and though Hermione would normally be quite excited to find out which mysterious muggle incidents had actually been caused by wizarding activity, she still couldn’t quell her irritation, and so it was with no small amount of relief that she packed up her bag at the end of the lesson.

As she passed Malfoy’s desk on the way out, she had the strangest feeling that he was trying to catch her attention to say something. Knowing it was most likely some sort of jibe or taunt, she refused to look his way, and left the room with her head held high.

Hopefully an hour surrounded by intermittently homocidal plants would be enough to distract her.


	3. Five Gryffindors, One Ravenclaw, And Thirty-Two Chess Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for joining me in chapter three! I hope you enjoy this installment!

After class on Monday, Hermione decided to try and spend a bit of time in the library in preparation for the mission on the south corridor that night.

She had been wandering the shelves looking for a book on plastering and joining, when she remembered the muggle studies essay they’d been set on muggle-wizard interactions. It was the first essay for the class that she was going to need to do actual research for, so she reluctantly decided to abandon her construction books in favour of getting her homework done. Grabbing the nearest book on construction magic off the shelf, she tucked it under her arm for later and headed over to the small muggle studies section of the library to peruse the shelves there.

She had just spotted a promising-sounding title and was about to close her fingers around the spine, when she heard footsteps.

“Back off Granger, I saw it first,” came a distressingly familiar drawl from behind her, and her heart plummeted into her pelvis.

She turned with a scowl, plucking the book off the shelf and cradling it protectively against her chest. “No you didn’t, how could you possibly have seen it first when you were behind me-?”

“I just did,” Malfoy said churlishly. His thin eyebrows were drawn together, and his features looked even more angular than normal. She wondered again if he might be ill.

“Look, I’m sure there’s another copy somewhere, why don’t you just-”

“There isn’t,” said Malfoy. He feinted a grab at the book, and while she was distracted trying to dodge him, easily summoned it from her grip. “And now it’s mine.”

Her anger ignited, Hermione hit him with a convulsive jinx, and grabbed the book as it slipped from his spasming fingers. “You can have it when I’m done. I’ll be one hour,” she told him shortly, quite pleased with herself.

“I need to get that paper done _now_ ,” he snapped, clenching his fists to stop his hands from convulsing.

She sneered at him. “You’re not the only one with plans, Malfoy.”

She attempted to make off with her prize, but he blocked her way out from between the shelves. When she looked up to meet his eyes (realising oddly that he was much taller up close than she remembered), she expected to find blazing anger, but was instead met with nothing more than mild irritation.

“Look,” he said resignedly. “Let’s just…share it. We both want to get it done now, so...?” he muttered.

Despite his obvious embarrassment, Hermione thought it was perhaps the most sensible thing he’d said in the entire seven years she had known him.

She considered this. “Alright. If you let me read your ‘ _if I were a muggle_ ’ paper.”

Malfoy looked immediately horrified. “Are you mad?” he hissed. “Absolutely not!”

As if she’d crossed a physical line as well as a verbal one, Hermione stepped back. “Oh. I’m… sorry.”

There then followed an incredibly awkward silence. “Never mind,” she murmured, and made to brush past him.

“Wait, no-” Malfoy raised a hand to grab her elbow, then jerked away before he could make contact, as if he’d been burned. “Don’t make me say it again,” he grit out.

“What?”

“Please.”

Comprehension dawned, and Hermione blinked up at him.

“ _Please_ can we share,” he asked, and Hermione knew the moment he spoke, she’d already lost her battle. “I really need to get this done.”

She must be mad. She took a breath. “Alright then. If we must.”

He nodded curtly at her, and they emerged out from between the bookshelves. Sharing a textbook with Draco Malfoy was the very last thing she had expected to be doing that evening, but in a strange way, she was kind of excited. This was new territory. She wondered whether they’d be able to make it through so much as one chapter without hexing one another. Again.

The first issue presented itself immediately, as they each gravitated to different tables. A silent but violent battle of wills raged for a few moments, and after a few exchanged glares and exasperated gestures, Malfoy eventually stomped over to join Hermione at her favourite table, scowling. She couldn’t help but feel smug. She imagined he was aware that he was pushing his luck already.

It felt so incredibly weird to be settling down to work with _Malfoy_ that Hermione could barely concentrate for the first five minutes. The book, ‘ _What Really Happened and What Muggles Were Told_ ’ was any muggle conspiracy theorist’s wet dream, but Hermione was so busy listening to Malfoy breathing, and watching his quill move over his page, and wondering if he’d also had a Herbology class that day, because he smelt faintly of fertiliser, that she couldn’t enjoy it at first.

When she finally managed to redirect her thoughts, they began moving through the textbook at a formidable pace. It was conveniently organised into double-paged spreads detailing events of importance, which allowed them both to independently jot down notes without having to flip back and forth. Hermione was pretty impressed that he seemed to be able to keep up with her reading speed, and after a while, she even found herself starting to enjoy the company.

That said, she was glad they didn’t talk other than the odd ‘ _ready to move on_?’ and ‘ _get your hair out of the way Granger, I can’t see_ ’, because she knew that any sustained conversation would likely send this unspoken truce crumbling into ash. It was actually weirdly nice to have a silent study partner.

Even if they did pull their textbooks out once in a while, you could hardly call Ron and Harry _silent_.

“What are all the construction books for?” Malfoy asked suddenly, some time later. Hermione looked up to see him studying the spines of ‘ _Tiling for Trolls’_ and ‘ _Masonry for Morons’_ , which were sticking obtrusively out of the top of her satchel. There was an amused glint in his grey eyes.

“Just some…extra reading,” she said evasively, nudging her bag closed. “Got some things I want to fix.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.

“Mm.” Malfoy rested his chin on his fist, smirking slightly. “Haven’t we all.”

Caught off guard, she giggled, and he smiled, not in the snide way she was used to, but openly. Genuinely. It was like his face was transformed.

She struggled not to stare, wondering exactly how a simple smile could have changed his appearance so completely, and she was frankly rather relieved when Malfoy looked back at his parchment as if he’d revealed too much.

Several minutes later, the moment forgotten, Hermione couldn’t help but let out an involuntary ‘oh!’ of surprise when she turned the page to see the worlds ‘Jack the Ripper’, and Malfoy frowned at her.

“Sorry, I just…this is such… this is fascinating! I mean, horrible, but fascinating.” She scanned the page. “When you put it all together…of course he was a wizard! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before!”

There was an unintelligible expression on Malfoy’s face, but she continued, undeterred. “The precise removal of intact organs…the differing eyewitness accounts… it all makes sense! Oh, how horrible. You have no idea how long muggles have been trying to solve this one. They’ll never guess the truth!”

Malfoy smirked. “Of course not. Stupid muggles will do whatever they can to ignore the existence of magic.”

Anger flooded through Hermione’s veins as sharply as if a switch had been flipped. “Is that right?!” she asked icily.

Malfoy looked nonplussed. “Oh, I didn’t mean you-”

“But it doesn’t matter, does it?” she hissed. “It’s just ingrained into you! It doesn’t matter if you don’t mean me. It’s still my friends. It’s still my family!”

And the thought of her parents, so impossibly far away, brought a lump to her throat.

Malfoy’s wide-eyed, panic-stricken gaze looked as if he would like nothing more than to evaporate on the spot. She stared him down, even as the tears bloomed hotly at her eyelashes. She was determined not to let him win. She set her shaking quill to parchment and resumed writing.

Though she refused to look up and check, she was certain that Malfoy was watching her. Steadfast, she scratched another line of notes and mumbled “hurry up, I want to see the next page.”

Dutifully, he bent his head and went back to his essay.

Somehow, they managed to reach the end of the page without further antagonism, and then the next. After a short while had passed, Hermione decided that she had researched enough events to be able to put together a comprehensive essay, and started to pack away her belongings.

She had done a fair job of damping down her anger with him, so when she turned away to leave, Malfoy’s voice came crashing down on her with the force of a tidal wave.

“I’m…sorry.”

She was immediately drenched in fury, confusion and shock. And yet beneath all that, there was also a kind of quiet pleasure that unfurled in her chest like the tail of a cat. She wasn’t exactly willing to extend forgiveness that easily, but she was also aware how much ‘ _sorry’_ must mean, coming from Malfoy… to someone like her.

It took several breaths for her to straighten out her thoughts before she trusted her facial expression enough to turn around.

“I…” she struggled for a moment longer. “Thank you? But I, er… I think you’ve got a lot more sorrys to say.”

Satisfied with the shell-shocked look on his face, she spun on her heel and left the library.

* * *

When the hour of her scheduled castle-rebuilding mission arrived, Hermione was hiding in a bath on the fifth floor with four Gryffindors, one Ravenclaw, and thirty-two Wizard’s Chess pieces hell-bent on smashing the living daylights out of one another.

Over dinner, the group had decided that having all six of them travel down to the south corridor after curfew was far too risky. After some brief brainstorming, Neville had suggested they hide nearby while curfew descended, ready to make a break for it once it was safe enough to make their escape. And then Ginny had had the brainwave of suggesting the Prefects’ bathroom.

Despite Hermione’s initial misgivings about this plan, hiding at the bottom of the empty swimming-pool-sized bath had ended up being so much fun that the entire group was now far more excited about their mission. And, Hermione hoped, more likely to want to do it again.

Ron had managed to sneak a Wizard’s Chess set down to the bathroom, and his white pieces were now being thoroughly thrashed by Luna’s black. Ginny and Hermione were experimenting with some of the taps, seeing what varieties of foam would appear from within. And Harry and Neville were levitating bubbles over to the dejected pile of broken chess pieces, who seemed to be able to overcome their wounds long enough to stab any that got too close.

When Harry eventually called out, “Okay everyone, the coast is clear, let’s go,” Hermione was almost sorry to leave. Thankfully, as they all snuck out of the door and down the corridor, the adrenaline came shooting back, and soon they were all grinning uncontrollably, the thrill of rule-breaking impossible to ignore.

They eventually turned onto the opening to the south corridor, and Hermione’s mouth fell open. It was easy to see why the professors hadn’t bothered to put any barriers up – the floor simply dropped away in front of them. The south corridor was the only route of passage to the south wing, which used to be home to a huge number of classrooms on several different floors of the castle, though that was before it faced the brunt of the giant attacks during the battle. Hermione had yet to see the south wing for herself, but she’d heard that it was little more than a ruin. As a result, the entire area had been declared out of bounds, and they’d been having to manage with all classes confined to the main building.

As if signifying the extent of the destruction lying ahead, the south corridor itself was now nothing more than an empty hall that opened out onto the grounds of Hogwarts below. Most of the windows along both walls have been shattered, and a huge pile of rubble sat waiting for them at the end, blocking the way to the rest of the south wing. Peering down into the gloom, Hermione spotted large chunks of splintered wood lying amongst shattered glass and twisted metal. The grass below had started to grow up around the debris, as if claiming it for its own.

They stood in silence for a moment. “What do we do?” asked Neville eventually.

Hermione had been asking herself the same question, and even though she hadn’t quite formulated an answer, she knew that they needed to get moving, or else risk being discovered before they’d even had the chance to start rebuilding. “Let’s go down onto the grass. I think it’ll be easier to rebuild the floor from there,” she suggested.

A quick cushioning charm later, and they were all landing softly onto the cold grass outside. It hit her suddenly that they were actually outside the castle boundaries after dark, and she nearly giggled at the rush of rebellion coursing through her.

“Right, so, I think if we split into a couple of teams – one to start with repairing all the windows, and the other to start attempting to fit the wooden floor back together?”

Everyone willingly obliged, and soon they were all working away, shattered glass flying upwards to fit itself into empty windowpanes, and chunks of wood rearranging themselves on the grass. It was like trying to fit an enormous puzzle together, and with the best will in the world, it was incredibly difficult to make sure all the right pieces got joined together. Thank goodness Ginny had become so adept with her sealing charm (no doubt down to tormenting her friends), and was rapidly managing to fix each chunk of wood to the next as they others levitated them into the air in readiness. The trickiest bits were the wooden supports beneath the floor, but with steady persistence, and some great charmwork from the team, they managed to make progress.

To Hermione’s surprise and delight, little more than an hour had passed before the floor was practically back to normal. They were all back up at the entrance to the corridor again, putting the final bits back together, when they realised there was only one more piece of floorboard to replace.

In awed silence, the others watched as she levitated it back into place, and then they all raised their wands as one, hitting the entire corridor with six immense sealing charms that vibrated the floorboards beneath their feet. 

They looked at one another excitedly, barely daring to believe they had succeeded.

Hermione slowly put a foot out onto the fresh floorboards and held her breath as she took a step forward. Insanely, miraculously, it held her weight. “We’ve done it!” she whispered, and then everyone was rushing forward to join her, cheering and whooping in hushed tones. The atmosphere was intoxicating, and before she knew it, she was grinning so widely she felt as if her jaw would ache the next day.

Ron surged forwards and picked her up to twirl her around, both of them laughing giddily.

 _This is it_ , she thought. This was the feeling she wanted. Among the people that meant the most to her in the world, working together to help rebuild their home, achieving something we weren’t even sure was possible…

But then Ron leant in to peck a kiss onto her lips, and the feeling in her stomach popped like a balloon. Her skin felt instantly prickly and oversensitive, and she was relieved when Ron set her back down again.

Oblivious to Hermione’s shudder, Ron wandered over to the end of the corridor and pointed his wand at the huge pile of rubble blocking the passageway into the destroyed wing. “Hey, why don’t we clear all this? We could explore the South Corridor!”

Everyone ran to join him, still dizzy with glee. Hermione was grinning at Neville, when his expression suddenly changed to one of horror, and she whipped her head around just in time to see a blue light glimmer out from the mountain of rubble Ron had tapped with his wand. And then the rocks exploded with the force of a small bomb, taking most of the corridor with them.

* * *

Hermione felt herself blasted back from the force of the explosion, and then they were all tumbling through the floor they’d only just repaired, landing on the damp grass beneath as pieces of wood and stone came raining down over them. Luna cast a shield charm, holding off the worst of the deluge as Hermione stared up, powerless and in shock. And then, all of a sudden, it was over, and all six were left blinking in the cold starlight, gazing up at the inside of the corridor that looked just as broken as ever.

“Well… At least they can’t say we made it worse,” quipped Ginny.

“I don’t understand,” breathed Neville. “What _was_ that?!”

With no more idea than the rest of them, Hermione decided to avoid the question. “I don’t think we can stay here – one of the professors is bound to have heard something. Is everyone alright?”

Soft murmurs of confirmation reached her from everyone except for Ron. She looked over at him and realised that his face was as white as a sheet. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly, carefully. “My leg looks…funny.”

Hermione blanched. His right leg seemed to be bent the wrong way at the knee.

Harry leapt to his feet. “Right. Hermione, Luna, Ginny, Neville, you guys get back to bed before you’re spotted. I’ll take Ron to the hospital wing and say he fell over or something.”

“If they find you and Ron together, they’ll know something was up,” Hermione protested. “You guys go; I’ll take Ron. If you’ve got the Marauders’ Map you should be able to get back without being caught. I’ll say Ron and I went on a walk and forgot the time, or something.”

Harry looked as if he wanted to argue, but remembering the time pressure, he closed his mouth and nodded.

“We’ll wait for you in the common room,” he said, and with a curt nod, they all set about getting themselves back up into what was left of the corridor.

After everyone else had fled, Hermione had barely managed to get Ron further than ten metres down the hall before a lit wand rounded the corner and Professor McGonagall’s shocked face appeared behind it.

“Miss Granger! Mr Weasley! Whatever are you doing out of bed? And what in Godric’s name was that noise?!” She looked more frightened than Hermione had seen her in a long while, as if she was expecting something to come leaping out of the shadows any moment.

“Please, Professor, Ron’s hurt, we need to get him to the hospital wing!” Hermione cried, gesturing to Ron’s wobbly form. “I think we set off some kind of spell in the rubble by the South Corridor.”

McGonagall conjured a stretcher out of mid-air which Ron hopped gratefully onto, his injured leg flopping grotesquely. “Take him _straight_ to Madam Pomfrey,” she ordered. “I will meet you there shortly and you _will_ explain yourselves.” 

Nodding mutely, Hermione pointed her wand at the stretcher and set off for the stairs as McGonagall disappeared back the way they’d come, wand held aloft.

It was only a short walk to the hospital wing, but it seemed to take ten times longer than normal. It might have been something to do with the fact that her legs couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

* * *

Once Ron had been seen to (a ghastly set of spells that prompted a lot of yelling and some rather exotic swear words), Madam Pomfrey turned her attention to Hermione. Despite numerous protestations, she fussed over the scattered cuts on her face and hands and insisted on rubbing essence of dittany on them. Hermione was saved from having to remove her shirt to prove she was otherwise unscathed, by the appearance of Professor McGonagall, her lips pursed so tight that they had practically vanished entirely.

Ron immediately rolled over and pretended to be asleep. “Not so fast, Mr Weasley,” scolded McGonagall, and he resurfaced from the pillow wearing a sheepish expression. “I must have a word with you both. A moment, Poppy?”

Madam Pomfrey nodded obligingly and disappeared into her office.

“You will be pleased to know that the South corridor, while still out of bounds, is at least safe for the time being,” said McGonagall, conjuring a plush, high-backed chair that she settled immediately and gratefully into.

“Professor, what was that spell that went off?” Hermione asked, unable to stop herself.

McGonagall eyed her carefully as if deciding how to answer. “As I am sure you are aware Miss Granger, many of the thousands of spells cast at the battle of Hogwarts did not meet their desired targets.” She pursed her lips still further. “We have reason to believe that a number of these erroneously cast spells have become lodged in the infrastructure of the castle, awaiting detonation. It is my guess that Mr Weasley and yourself managed to run afoul of one such spell. Thank Merlin, it appears only to have been an _expulso_.”

Hermione’s mind immediately started racing with questions, and it was all she could do to refocus enough to hear the rest of the conversation.

“Is that why it’s taking so long to rebuild the castle?” asked Ron, and Hermione shot a glare at him, worried that he might end up inadvertently exposing their evening’s antics.

Thankfully McGonagall didn’t seem to notice, but she did cast Ron an icy look. “I assure you that we are working as quickly as we can, but yes. The threat of numerous dark curses being released with every movement does tend to slow down even the most accomplished wizard.” Ron looked abashed and the headmistress cleared her throat. “We do not know what kind of dark spells await us in the worst-hit parts of the castle, and it is for this reason that so many areas have been declared strictly out-of-bounds until we have managed to identify, categorise, and eliminate these risks. What I need to know, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger, is why _exactly_ you two came to be at the entrance of an out-of-bounds corridor in the middle of the night?”

Hermione looked down at her hands, trying to think of a way to make ‘we went for a walk’ sound at all plausible.

“I was sleepwalking,” blurted Ron unconvincingly.

McGonagall quirked an eyebrow.

“Yeah, and uh, Hermione was in the common room, and, and she saw me, and she followed me… down…”

Hermione felt like a rabbit in the headlights. She knew that nothing she could possibly say would make Ron’s train wreck of an excuse any more convincing, so she remained silent.

Looking between them, McGonagall sighed. “Very well. I do believe I understand what has transpired this evening.”

Hermione stared down at her clasped hands.

“Now, I am aware that as a… couple… you may, from time to time… want some privacy.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. Ron had turned an alarming shade of pink, but McGonagall barely seemed to notice. In fact, she appeared to be a little pink in the face herself. Hermione wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole

“Professor-”

“I am not finished, Miss Granger.” She cleared her throat. “I understand that our school rules may feel… restrictive after the year you’ve had, but while you live within the castle’s walls, you _will_ abide by them. I must ask that on any future occasions wherein you find yourselves wishing for a, ah, _secluded moment_ ” - all three blushed even harder - “…you are not to seek it after curfew, or in areas of the castle that have been declared out of bounds. Do you understand?”

The ground remained oblivious to Hermione’s silent plea. “Yes, Professor,” she and Ron said meekly.

McGonagall gave a curt nod, clearly just as relieved as them to put an end to that particular conversation. “Very well then. Now, I must take fifty points from Gryffindor – don’t look at me like that Mr Weasley, you of all people should be aware that breaking curfew carries a price. But now that unpleasantness is over, I wish you a speedy recovery. And Miss Granger, to bed with you. I imagine Professor Vector would prefer you well-rested for Arithmancy tomorrow.”

Hermione nodded and watched as the older witch swept out of the hospital wing. “I’ll come and see you tomorrow?” she offered Ron, and he smiled. There was an expectant look on his face that told her he was hoping for a kiss, but when she leant in, he smelt of sweat and dirt and blood, so she redirected at the last minute to press her lips to his temple. She doubted Ron could even have had time to open his eyes again before she was on her way back to the Gryffindor tower, heart fluttering in her chest.

* * *

Upon arrival through the portrait hole, she was immediately accosted by Harry, Ginny, and Neville, clamouring for news of Ron.

“He’s fine, he’s fine, don’t worry. Madam Pomfrey sorted him out in about 30 seconds,” she said, and they all sighed with relief. “He needs some time to recover still, but I think he’ll be discharged in a day or two if he keeps on Madam Pomfrey’s good side and stops swearing when she goes anywhere near his knee. It’s a good thing McGonagall didn’t hear some of the things he was coming out with.”

“McGonagall was there?!” cried Neville.

“She caught us on our way up to the hospital wing,” Hermione explained. “She was more worried about the corridor than Ron to be honest.”

“What did you tell her? You didn’t mention the rebuilding effort, did you?” asks Ginny.

“Of course not!” Hermione cried instantly, then blushed as she remembered what had actually transpired. “She, well… Ron said he was sleepwalking, but it was a rubbish lie, so she didn’t believe him for a second. She thought we’d been out for a…um, for a different reason.”

Harry, Ginny, and Neville looked at her expectantly.

“Well, ah, she seemed to think that Ron and I had, er…snuck off. Together. For, um… ‘privacy’.”

There was a shocked silence, and then all three of them began to roar with laughter.

Despite her mortification, Hermione couldn’t quite stop herself grinning. “I’ve never seen McGonagall look so embarrassed… She said that if we wanted to find any more, er, ‘ _secluded moments’” -_ Ginny cackled delightedly - “we’d need to do it _before_ curfew.”

“Nice romantic date, that,” chuckled Harry. “Meeting up for a quick snog in a corridor with no floor.”

“Must have been one hell of a snog to have caused an explosion like _that_ ,” joked Neville, smirking.

“Oh, I forgot to mention! McGonagall knew what the explosion was!” Hermione burst out, and the others sobered up, smiles fading as she explained what the headmistress had told her.

“So they’re everywhere? All over the castle?” asked Ginny uncertainly.

“Everywhere that’s not been fixed by the professors,” answered Hermione. “It seems that the rebuilding is going to be more dangerous than I realised, so we’re going to have to be really careful-”

“Wait, Hermione,” said Harry softly. “You mean you’re planning to try again?”

She stared at him, taken aback. “Well, of course!”

He exchanged glances with Ginny and Neville. “It’s just, well, we thought that after tonight… with the corridor collapsing, and Ron breaking his leg, and getting caught, and especially now, finding out that there’s all sorts of curses around the castle… We thought, you know… that we’d probably… not?”

Hermione clenched her fists as the words sank in, willing herself not to get upset. Disappointment and hurt welled up in her chest. As far as she was concerned, the curses around the castle were just another reason why it was so important to make things safe again. What if some unsuspecting first year found themselves out of bounds (just as she and the boys often had all those years ago) and wandered across a _confringo_? Hogwarts was unusual, and confusing, and bizarre, but it shouldn’t be unsafe. Well, with the exception of the odd three-headed dog, perhaps.

All their efforts that night had been going well until the spell was triggered. Their brief success meant that they _could_ help contribute to the rebuilding effort. She would just need to research latent spells and work out how to neutralise them first. If anything, the failure had only made her more determined to try again. Perhaps she should try and start small… maybe repairing some of the windows down on the ground floor…?

“Hermione?”

She looked up suddenly, realising that she’d been lost in her own thoughts. She cleared her throat. “So that’s it, then? You’re giving up?” she asked bluntly.

Harry looked pained. “I’m really sorry Hermione, but… yes. I don’t think it’s our place to meddle, and I just… I think maybe I just want a normal year, for once.”

Betrayal seared through her chest. “I see. Never mind,” she muttered coldly, and made to brush past them.

“Are you really going to keep trying? After what happened to Ron tonight?” Ginny asked, horrified.

“Look, you don’t have to do it with me,” Hermione sighed, trying to keep ahold of her temper. “ _I_ know I can make a difference, and I’m not just going to sit back and watch areas of _my_ _home_ crumble and rot because it takes too long to be fixed! This is _important_ to me.”

She took a few more steps towards the dorm and then stopped. She knew she should bite her tongue, but the hurt in her stomach was billowing up into her throat, a bitter taste. “And honestly?” she said, turning back to face them. “I can’t believe you won’t do so much as _try_. What happens when a first year goes exploring and gets themselves blown to pieces because no one’s been able to deactivate the curses from the war? Why should I have to be reminded of how much I’m _hated_ by the dark side every time I go to muggle studies class because no one’s had time to clean up the artifact room? It’s not _fair_!” There were tears in her eyes now. “So I’m going to keep trying, whether you’re with me or not. Goodnight!”

And she flung herself up the steps and into her bed before anyone could come after her. It was only once she was alone that she realised how shaken up she felt, her mind as raw and bruised as if the night’s events had pummelled her into compliancy. Shivering with adrenaline, she burrowed into the covers and tried desperately to sleep.

* * *

Hermione had expected that Ron would take her side when she told him all about it in the hospital wing the next day, but instead he froze half-way through a mouthful of cauldron cake and directed his uncertain gaze towards the duvet.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re on their side!” Hermione cried in dismay.

Ron delayed having to answer by chewing deliberately for a while. “I don’t know about sides, Hermione, but er… I mean, I did break my leg…”

Hermione realised, quite suddenly and heavily, that she didn’t have the strength to fight with him.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.” And she stood up.

“It’s just… It’s clearly not safe, is it? And if McGonagall catches us again we’ll be in _real_ trouble, right?”

“It’s fine Ron,” she said firmly, taking a breath to steady herself. “It’s really fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She wished she didn’t feel quite so betrayed, but Ron was her last hope to have someone on her side about all this. A sense of abandonment ached densely in her stomach. Rebuilding a castle full of leftover curses was going to be dangerous, and now she was on her own. She wasn’t angry with Ron, not really, but she was hurt. And it hurt even more that he didn’t seem to notice.

She left the hospital wing, but halfway to the common room, she noticed Ginny in the corridor up ahead. If they bumped into one another, she would want to talk about last night, and Hermione didn’t think she had her thoughts settled enough for that yet. So even though the library was due to close in less than an hour, she turned abruptly and headed there at once.

She sequestered herself into a booth in the corner to minimise the chances of anyone passing by and stopping to talk. Pulling herself out of the loneliness that was threatening to descend, she unearthed some fresh parchment and attempted to get started on her latest Charms assignment. But barely five minutes were able to pass before something (or rather, someone) jerked her out of her self-imposed isolation.

“Sorry,” said that someone.

Hermione whirled around and looked up incredulously into the anxious face of Draco Malfoy, who was clearly trying to school his expression into one of indifference. “What?” she snapped, unwilling and unable to disguise her annoyance.

He flushed. “I said sorry.”

“What on earth for?”

“You said I have a lot of sorrys to say, didn’t you? So that’s what I’m doing,” he answered stiffly, looking down at his feet.

Hermione blinked. His voice was prickly, as if annoyed that she hadn’t immediately fallen at his feet in forgiveness. Unluckily for him, she was already too irritated from the events of the last twenty-four hours to deal with whatever self-serving redemption trip he was on right now. She scowled.

“Christ, Malfoy, I didn’t mean just for me. It’s not like I’m the only person you’ve ever wronged!”

“Well, I’m making a start, aren’t I?” he retorted hotly.

She groaned into her hands.

“ _Merlin_ , Granger, who pissed in _your_ pumpkin juice?”

“Please, Malfoy. Just go away,” she pleaded, her voice cracking in frustration.

He went quiet. Then, hesitantly, as if the words didn’t come naturally: “Is…something wrong?”

She snapped. “Yes, there is something wrong! But I don’t want to talk about it, and especially not to you, coming around distracting me like you always do with your fake sorrys and your stupid, pointy face-”

He barked out an unexpected laugh, which seemed to surprise them both. He looked at her, his eyes wide, and the bubble of anger and hurt in her stomach deflated a little. “Sorry,” she mumbled, suddenly embarrassed.

“They’re, er… They’re not fake,” he said stiffly.

Lowering her gaze, she nodded slowly. “I know. I believe you.” There was a pause. “And I’m sorry I said your face was pointy.”

He shrugged. “It’s okay. It kind of is.”

Her lip twitched.

A line appeared at the corner of his mouth where he was trying not to laugh.

Something invisible and unspoken between them softened slightly.

It felt, inexplicably, like something important had changed. And when she looked up into his grey eyes and smiled hesitantly, it felt to Hermione as if she had extended a gesture as shy and sincere as reaching out to touch his hand.

When Madam Pince came round later to close the library and Hemione finally set off for the common room, it occurred to her that maybe she was right about Malfoy being lonely. It was unlikely that many other students had tried to extend the figurative olive branch.

Perhaps his peculiar apology was him reaching out to reciprocate whatever kindness she was willing to show him.


	4. "The Foresight Of A Rearview Mirror"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Alcohol consumption (in moderation)

“Hermione?”

Harry’s voice was tentative as he beckoned her over. His face was set and worry-worn, as if anticipating that Hermione would either ignore him, or shout at him again. Ginny and Neville were both sat with him by the common room fireplace, looking nervous. Clearly Hermione's outburst from the night before was still rather present in their minds.

“Hi,” Hermione said, as warmly as she could manage, and their faces immediately relaxed.

For some reason, her awkward conversation with Malfoy in the library had left her feeling much more mellow than before. Of course she was still hurt that none of her friends were willing to help her with the rebuilding, but it was as if she had just suddenly realised that she didn’t want to punish them for it.

“I’m… I’m sorry about last night,” she said carefully. “It wasn’t fair of me to shout at you like that.”

She wondered if perhaps they had been feeling guilty too, because they accepted her apology immediately, and soon they were chatting and laughing and joking as they sank into armchairs and into normalcy, as if nothing had ever happened.

Harry told them about the slight fall from grace he was experiencing with Slughorn thanks to a lack of guidance from the Half-Blood Prince, Ginny spent most of the evening threatening anyone who laughed at her bright purple teeth (the result of a tricky transfiguration lesson) that she would give them a set to match, and Neville had them all wheezing at his tale of the vicious correspondence battle over a certain Sword of Gryffindor that he had been embroiled in ever since its sudden appearance from the sorting hat four months before.

“But we know it’ll just turn up again whenever someone has need of it… so what’s wrong with letting you keep hold of it until the next worthy Gryffindor comes along?” asked Ginny, flashing her purple teeth as she grinned.

“That’s what I said,” agreed Neville, “but they still seem to think it’s worth pestering me with four owls a week trying to persuade me to give it to Gringotts. Fat chance, I couldn’t send it to them now even if I wanted to.”

“Why’s that?” Hermione asked.

“Because it’s at my Grandmother’s. I’m hoping that the Department of Magical Artifacts decides to go knocking, actually – she’s got it mounted up on the wall and I’ve heard she’s been hexing anyone that gets too close to it. Apparently next door’s cat was the latest victim.”

The frequent bouts of laughter over the rest of the evening were comforting, and it was with a significantly more settled air that Hermione ascended the stairs for bed later that night.

* * *

Parvati was awake when she entered, and seemingly up for company, so the two of them ended up lounging on her bed, idly practising decorative charms on the duvet while they chatted. It was an incredibly intricate area of magic, but as Hermione managed to etch the rough outline of an otter in golden stitches on the fabric, and Parvati charmed the last thread in place to form a red rose, she decided it was pretty satisfying.

“Parvati?” she asked, after a while.

“Mm?” she responded noncommittally, attempting to transfigure her embroidered rose into a different colour.

“Promise me you won’t say I’m being weird?”

Wand stilling as her interest was piqued, Parvati grinned curiously at her. “I promise…?”

“I think I might try and make friends with Draco Malfoy.”

Parvati rolled her eyes in a fond sort of way. “Don’t you think he’s a bit… I don’t know… past that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know… whenever I see him, it just looks like he’s given up on everything. Like he’s been through enough crap, all he wants to do is just run away and be left alone. Like he’s a bit, sort of… broken, you know?” she said, gently.

Hermione looked down in her lap. “I don’t think he’s broken. I just think he’s a bit damaged, and beaten down, and he needs some kindness. Like he’s a… a fixer-upper.”

Parvati laughed. “And you’re planning to fix him up?”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “Maybe.”

Parvati flicked her wand, and Hermione watched her chestnut curls turn a delightful shade of green before Parvati reversed it with a flourish. “You’re sweet. I think that makes you a fixer-upper too, you know. The one _doing_ the fixing. It means both things, right?”

Hermione pondered this. “I think usually it means a house in dire need of repair, but why not,” she shrugged. “Maybe I am a fixer-upper.”

Parvati giggled at her. “Aren’t we all?”

There was a companionable silence for a while as their attention fell back to their charmwork. “Do you think Malfoy’s a lost cause?” Hermione asked eventually.

“No,” Parvati replied immediately. She twiddled her wand again, watching as patches of Hermione’s duvet flickered pink, then gold, then blue. “I think there’s some good in him, deep down. Just watch you don’t go getting hurt by all the bad along the way.”

For someone who loved divination so much, Hermione always thought that the advice Parvati gave was often surprisingly grounded. “I’ll try. Thanks, Parvati,” she said.

Parvati grinned back. “Any time, Little Miss Fixer-Upper.”

Hermine stuck her tongue out. “Alright, that’s it, get off my bed, you nuisance.”

“Ugh, I see how it is!” Parvati huffed, flopping backwards onto the duvet with a dramatic sigh. “That’s the last time I give you life advice!”

“I’m a big girl!” protested Hermione through splutters of laughter. “I can give myself life advice!”

Parvati lifted her head off the bed and regarded her with warm brown eyes. “Hermione, I love you, but you have the foresight of a rearview mirror.”

They looked at one another, and then burst into giggles.

When they’d finally managed to calm down, Parvati leant in close to wrap Hermione in a hug. “I’m really glad you’re here with me this year,” she said softly.

“Me too,” said Hermione truthfully, squeezing her back. She thought for a moment. “Can I just ask… are you sure it doesn’t bother you that I’m so willing to forgive Malfoy after everything he did? You know… After… everything in the war?”

There was a pause, and even though her name hadn’t been said, Hermione was certain that they were both thinking about Lavender. “No, it doesn’t bother me,” Parvati said, eventually, carefully. “What happened… still hurts. Of course. Every time I see the damage in the castle I wish things were different. I miss Lavender every _single_ day-” She had to pause, her voice going thin. “But Malfoy isn’t the one to blame. Just because he made some choices and ended up on the wrong side doesn’t make him personally responsible. So, you know, I’ll only hold him accountable for the things he did. And if you’re okay with him, that’s enough for me.”

Hermione suddenly realised she didn’t quite have the right words to say to such a meaningful response. So instead she just squeezed her friend tightly, trying to let Parvati know how much she was appreciated.

“Thank you. Are you doing okay?” she whispered eventually, and Parvati pulled away and smiled at her.

“Not all the time,” she answered plainly. “But it’s getting easier. And it means a lot having a friend here.”

Hermione went to bed after that feeling as if she was glowing.

* * *

The following afternoon, Ron was given the all-clear to leave the hospital wing. Feeling that she should probably see him safely back to the common room, Hermione decided to visit him as soon as her classes had ended.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, spotting him in the corner and rushing over.

“Good as new!” Ron said happily, swinging his feet out of bed. He had either forgotten about her unceremonious exit the day before, or he was doing a very good job of pretending it had never happened, for which she was glad. “Do you want to hang out tonight? Just us?”

Gladness forgotten, her face fell. It felt like she had to say yes, but she wasn’t really sure if she wanted to, especially when all she could think about were the homework assignments she still had yet to complete…

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” said Ron quickly. “I know you’re busy.”

Hermione looked into his eyes. This was the boy that she’d been in love with for two years; her closest friend and confidant. She _should_ be delighted to spend time with him. So she shook off the uncertainties crowding into her mind, and told him that she would love to. 

Ron beamed and jumped up onto his feet, squeezing her hands in his. “Brilliant! Am I free to go, Madam Pomfrey? I’ve reached the end of my sentence!” he called out.

Madam Pomfrey came bustling out of her office and appraised him critically for a moment. “Alright then, off with you,” she said begrudgingly. “But make sure you take care of that leg for a few days, you need to let those muscles build back up naturally.”

“Yes ma’am!” said Ron, punching the air. “I’m a free man!”

And Hermione couldn’t help but giggle as they collected his things from his bedside table and set off towards the great hall. “So what did you want to do tonight?” she asked, as they turned down the corridor and joined the flow of students eager for their dinner.

“I was thinking that it might be nice to find somewhere to hang out together, you know, talking or whatever. Somewhere private.”

She grinned wryly. “I hope you don’t mean _McGonagall_ private.”

Ron went scarlet.

* * *

To Hermione’s surprise and pleasure, their ‘date’ that evening ended up being one of the most enjoyable times she’d had with Ron in recent weeks.

As they sat at the back of an empty classroom on the fifth floor and chatted idly about the goings-on of the last few days, she realised that it felt like a return to the kind of easy companionship they always used to have. It was easy. Uncomplicated. Unpressured.

By the time they were fleeing the curfew back up at the Gryffindor tower, she was feeling practically giddy with the fact that she had just spent two hours alone with Ron feeling completely and totally at ease. There was none of that discomfort or uncertainty or _itchiness_. Just friendship.

Was that the right word to use?

Hermione was distracted from this train of thought as she climbed through the portrait hole, when there was a shriek from the other side of the common room and someone came barrelling over to her.

“Hermione, I’m sorry-” yelled a stricken Parvati.

Hermione’s heart immediately started racing and before she knew it she was poised ready to defend herself and Ron against whatever danger may be awaiting them. It looked like practically every Gryffindor in the castle was here, and they were all looking at her. Frantically flicking through all the possibilities for disaster in her mind, Hermione searched for the source of the commotion – had there been an attack? Was someone in danger?

Then: “Why didn’t you tell us it was your birthday this weekend?!” demanded Seamus from the other side of the room. Parvati buried her face in Hermione’s hair. “Are you intentionally depriving us of an excuse to get rat-arsed?”

Hermione stared at him in disbelief, her heart still thundering in her chest. “…What?”

“I’m sorry Hermione, I know you wouldn’t want anyone to make a big deal of it, but everyone was talking about needing a good excuse for a party, and…I let slip that you turn nineteen on Saturday-” wailed Parvati.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. “Christ, Parvati, you scared me half to death,” Hermione complained, extricating the mortified girl from around her shoulders as she fought to calm herself down. She stashed her wand away again and took a deep, steadying breath.

Seamus advanced on her. “So can we? We’ve been itching for a good excuse for months.”

Hermione still felt completely bemused. “I mean, as long as you don’t expect me to do anything in particular…sure?”

A collective cheer went up from the assembled students, including Ron at her side, and she grinned before she could help it. It was laughable, really, that they would want her permission to host a party when she knew full well that a herd of wild Hippogriffs couldn’t stop them once their minds were set.

“Brilliant!” roared Dean. “We’ll get all the old DA in, all the returning 8th years…”

Hermione stopped listening. She wasn’t exactly one for massive parties, especially those held in her honour, but at least she knew that as soon as enough firewhiskey had been drunk, no one would remember that her birthday had ever anything to do with the proceedings at all, so hopefully she would be able to sneak away as soon as she’d had enough.

She wouldn’t be getting any cards from her parents this year… Maybe a little celebration would help it feel a bit more like a birthday.

* * *

Another day, another library session.

Hermione headed over to her usual table, immediately spotting that the next one over was, once again, occupied by Malfoy, whose face was scrunched up in concentration. Discarded parchment littered his workspace and there was a flash of stray ink on his cheekbone.

He looked up at Hermione as she entered, nodding slightly in recognition.

“Hi,” she said uncertainly. Why was it that even the minutest of greetings felt like some huge sort of guessing game when it came to Malfoy?

“Hi,” he said. Then: “I’m sorry.” His lips twisted into a wry smirk. “Again.”

Hermione snorted before she could help it, shaking her head in derision as she settled down at her desk.

“Are you going to do that every time you see me?” she asked.

He quirked an eyebrow at her before looking back down at his work. “We’ll see.”

There was a short silence as Hermione dumped a bunch of textbooks onto her table and wrote the title of her next Defence Against the Dark Arts essay on a fresh roll of parchment.

“I didn’t see you in here yesterday,” said Malfoy suddenly. She could tell immediately that he was trying very hard to sound indifferent. “I thought you considered any moment not in the library as a moment wasted.”

She raised her eyebrows, smirking slightly. “Did you miss me?”

“Oh, please!” he snorted, snapping his gaze away. Hermione couldn’t help but giggle. “Arrogance doesn’t suit you.”

“Mm, perhaps I should leave it to the professionals,” she said impishly, and he scowled. There was a pause during which Hermione fought to keep the grin off her face.

“I just didn’t think that anything could _possibly_ be more important than homework,” Malfoy muttered eventually.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to decipher what he was asking.

“I was-”

At that moment, she was cut off by Madam Pince appearing around the side of the bookshelves like an overlarge vulture.

“Quiet!” she hissed, and they guiltily returned to their work.

It occurred to Hermione that it would be much easier to talk if they were sat at the same table. And so without a second thought, she swept all her things together and deposited them unceremoniously onto Malfoy’s table.

He looked up at her with an expression akin to having seen her march naked onto the quidditch pitch with an owl on her head. “What _are_ you doing?!” he whispered, horrified.

“Coming to work at your table, what does it look like?” Hermione said nonchalantly. “It’s easier to talk to you when you’re not sat three metres away.”

He grumbled into his parchment but didn’t reply.

“Yesterday was a bit of a busy day. I went to go see Ron when he left the hospital wing, we hung out for most of the evening, and then I got bullied into having a party this weekend,” she carried on.

“The Weasel King was in the hospital wing?”

“Don’t call him that.” She flipped idly through her textbook. “But yes.”

“What happened?”

She stopped page turning to fix him with a discerning look. “Do you care? Or do you just want to gloat?”

He sat back abruptly in his chair, a careful mask descending over his features. “You know me so well,” he said drily.

“He broke his leg,” explained Hermione, feeling oddly guilty.

“Ah,” he said by way of response. The tension eased a little.

She refocused on her parchment. It was a tricky essay about the laws surrounding the use of unforgivable curses, which was a bit mean of their new Defence teacher, Professor Morton, she thought, considering that a lot of legislation was due to change in the aftermath of the war. Malfoy made as if to speak again, but closed his mouth instead, and managed to wait until she had written at least a paragraph before continuing.

“I didn’t take you for the party type, Granger. What’s the occasion?”

She looked up from her parchment yet again. “My birthday,” she replied simply. He remained silent, and for some reason Hermione find herself flushing. “I’ll be nineteen.”

She glanced down at the textbook on the table, the sprawling text and the illustrations, the colours faded and desaturated. And then all of a sudden, before she had even thought about what she was going to say, words started tumbling out of her mouth. “Would you like to come?”

Malfoy looked about as shocked as the textbook's illustration of a witch being hit with a porcupine hex. “To your party?”

“Well, it’s not my party, really. The Gryffindors wanted to get drunk, and my birthday was just a convenient excuse. Look, you’d be welcome, there’s going to be lots of people from different houses there…”

“No Slytherins though, right?” Malfoy said flatly.

A flicker of guilt made itself known in Hermione’s belly. “Dean said he’d invite all the 8th years… I’m, I’m only asking in case he…forgets you,” she stammered.

“How kind of you,” he sneered, and she looked down at her essay again. She knew he was only lashing out in self-defence, but it still hurt.

They worked in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. The air felt as if it had been pulled taut between them, a string on the cusp of snapping.

Eventually, he spoke. “Will there be alcohol?” he asked, and his voice was softer this time, tentative.

She blinked. “Yes?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, uh, no doubt it’ll be some cheap Hogsmeade muck. Maybe I’d better, er, bring a bottle. You know, to make sure that you have a proper toast. For nineteen.”

She pulled her eyes up to meet his and the string of tension dissipated like pulled candyfloss. Delicate, and fragile, but good.

“I’d like that,” she said quietly.

Malfoy looked flushed but pleased, and at once Hermione knew that she’d made the right decision.

Inter-house unity involved all four houses, after all. 

And if that reasoning didn’t appease any nosy Gryffindors, she would just tell them that it was her party. And she would invite who she wanted to.

* * *

“Happy birthday Hermione!”

Hermione grinned widely and settled herself down at the dinner table, thanking a beaming Ginny, who seemed far too excited to sit still.

Between finishing off some assignments from the week, being jostled around well-meaningly in the great hall at lunchtime, and being distracted from her work by Ron repeatedly pulling her to one side for birthday kisses (“nineteen kisses for nineteen years!” he cried), it had seemed as if she had blinked and missed most of the day.

Harry’s gift had been a fascinating book about the real hauntings behind popular muggle ghost stories, and a pre-release ‘fact-checker’ bracelet from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, which was supposedly charmed to turn green when the wearer was right and red when they were wrong. The information card declared sunnily that ‘ _the Debate-O-Bangle checks your facts against our comprehensive database, allowing you to prove that you do, in fact, know everything_!’. It sounded suspiciously as if it may have been created with Hermione in mind.

Though she felt terrible to admit it, Ron’s present seemed a little underwhelming in comparison. He had bought her a recipe book that looked like one of the ones she had seen in his mum’s kitchen, and though she was sure it was intended as a sweet hobby-encouraging gift, it almost felt like a bit of a jab at her poor culinary reputation, and reminded her of some of the arguments they had had whilst camping together the previous year.

Still, she thanked him, and tried her hardest to reciprocate the many eager kisses he planted on her throughout the day.

“Nineteen!” cried Ginny across the table, throwing a gift in Hermione’s direction. “You’re so old!”

Laughing, Hermione accepted the familiar Every-Flavour-Beans-Box-shaped package. “Thanks Gin. Are you partying tonight?”

“As if we’d miss it!” grinned Ginny. “Apparently Hogsmeade has all but sold out of firewhiskey, and I know for a fact that Seamus and Dean have got hold of a butterbeer keg – I saw them lugging it in last night.”

“I didn’t expect people to go quite this full out for my birthday,” Hermione admitted, biting her lip, wondering if she ought to have purchased anything.

Ginny rolled her eyes fondly at her. “In the nicest way, Hermione, I don’t think your birthday has anything to do with it,” she laughed. “It’s the first time since the battle that everyone’s been back together properly. People have taken their time to grieve and now the world’s on its way to being back to normal… I think we’re owed a proper celebration, don’t you? Oh, what in Merlin’s name is that on your wrist?!”

Whilst Hermione reflected on Ginny’s words, the _Debate-O-Bangle_ caused hilarity at the table, with an endless list of people clamouring to try it on, desperate to prove themselves right in long-standing arguments. Despite the information card claiming that it wouldn’t work for subjective statements, Ginny soon discovered that saying ‘Voldemort sucks’, or ‘the ‘P’ in Prefect stands for Prick’ would cause the bracelet to glow a deep green for several minutes.

* * *

At 8 o’clock, Ginny came to collect Hermione from the dormitory, to which she had been banished whilst decorations were underway. She had made a cursory attempt at taming her hair and donned a pretty purple dress, and so it was with a quiet pride in her appearance that she descended the stairs.

There were strips of bunting and ‘Happy Birthday Hermione!’ banners strung up all around the common room. Red and gold balloons adorned every crevice, and a radio seemed to have been magically amplified so that the sounds of the Wireless Wizarding Network filled the room. A huge, enchanted banner on the wall featuring a blown-up image of her face on it kept clearing its throat and repeating ‘ _It’s sort of exciting, isn’t it? Breaking the rules_?’ in a tinny voice. A huge table at the side of the room groaned under the weight of bottles of all shapes and sizes. There was glitter _everywhere_.

Hermione suddenly had to start focusing very hard on _not crying_.

Ron spotted her and grabbed Harry, and the two of them immediately launched into an off-key rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ that soon had the whole room singing and Hermione laughing. Amongst the chorus she spotted every single returning eighth year (with the exception of Malfoy), and most Gryffindors from the year below. There were also a few others, including Luna (wearing a huge multicoloured patchwork dress adorned with a flashing badge), Dennis Creevey (who seemed to have undergone a growth spurt over the summer), and several other students she knew to be close friends or siblings of others in the room. Everyone seemed to have ditched their robes and dressed up a little, dress robes and muggle evening wear alike, and she realised how odd yet lovely it was to see so much colour around the common room in place of plain black robes. There were about 30 people in all, every single one beaming at her as they finished the song and burst into whoops and cheers.

Definitely on the boundary of weeping, Hermione leapt down the stairs and into Luna’s wide arms. Luna squeezed her tightly, her tent-like dress enveloping her, then stepped back and gestured to her badge. It read ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY HERMIO’ in huge writing. “You have a lot of letters in your name,” she said, simply, and Hermione couldn’t help but laugh.

Someone turned the music down, and Hermione turned to address the room, blushing madly. “Thanks so much for coming, everyone.” She was a bit out of her depth – all too used to being able to pass speeches over to Harry. She cleared her throat determinedly. “And thank you for putting this all together, it looks really, really incredible. We’ve, erm… we’ve had a hard year, and I er, I think we’re long overdue for a good celebration.”

“Hear, hear!” cried Ginny.

Hermione grinned, then paused. “Um, housekeeping-wise…” she said. Someone groaned but she ploughed on regardless. “If I spot anyone below sixth year with anything stronger than butterbeer, I’ll go straight to McGonagall. And everyone else: please _try_ not to get sent to the hospital wing… Er, okay?”

Everyone laughed delightedly, and Hermione conjured a goblet into her open hand. “Now, er… Let’s drink?”

The room erupted in cheers, the music resumed with gusto, and the bottle-laden table was immediately swamped with eager hands. Hermione was only planning on having a few drinks herself, but was also very excited to see what drunken silliness the night might have in store for some of the others. No one seemed to be wasting any time at all in knocking back the drinks, and it occurred to Hermione that they were celebrating something much bigger than just her birthday.

She drifted absently round with a glass of butterbeer, making idle chat with whomever she bumped into, until Parvati (who already seemed more giggly than normal) slung an arm over her shoulder. “Absolutely not!” she crowed. “You are _not_ drinking butterbeer on your nineteenth birthday!” She pointed her wand at her drink and vanished it with a wide grin.

“Hey-!”

“Hermione, you’ve had the last five years of your life to drink butterbeer. Tonight is the night for whiskey and _rum_!”

Hermione made to protest weakly, but Parvati was already pulling her towards the drinks table, bumping others out of the way with a cry of “watch it, birthday girl coming through!”

Parvati expertly selected an unfamiliar bottle, and with a conciliatory nod, Hermione allowed her goblet to be filled. Rolling her eyes, she took a sip and spluttered immediately. “God, what _is_ this?!”

“Dragon Barrel Brandy,” said Parvati nonchalantly. “Here, have it with a bit of dandelion fizz, it’ll take the edge off-”

Hermione knew that she could resist if she really wanted to, but in all honesty… she _didn’t_ want to. There was a little thrum of excitement deep in her belly at the prospect of letting go of some inhibitions for a while. If there was ever a night for it… this must be it.

* * *

An hour later, she was sat cross legged on a sofa with her third glass of brandy, considering the scenes around her with great amusement. Everyone had been drinking like they hadn’t seen so much as a drop of alcohol since last year, and as a result, everyone in the room appeared to now fall somewhere on the spectrum between giddy and completely inebriated.

There was a fierce sense of joy and camaraderie in the Gryffindor common room that night, the atmosphere electric. They were drinking in celebration and mourning, in loss and in reunion. And the feeling was just indescribable.

A makeshift dancefloor had sprung up in the corner next to the radio, which was pumping out dizzy drumbeats and heady vocals that Hermione had never heard before but assumed must be the sort of music that would play in wizard bars. Amongst the dancers were Neville and Hannah Abbott, both flushed and nervous, Neville’s hands on her waist and hers clasped on his shoulders. Hermione grinned.

On the other side of the room, Seamus and Dean had started mixing drinks from the huge variety of bottles available to them. A crowd of onlookers has amassed to accept their concoctions, which were eagerly sampled and subsequently either praised and shared around or spat out in horror. The latest experiment appeared to have fallen soundly in the latter camp, with the taster (Ernie Macmillan) recoiling in disgust, blue steam pouring out of his nose and ears.

Every so often, younger Gryffindors that Hermione didn’t recognise would wander through the room on their way to bed, looking around with nervously or excitedly, but thankfully no one seemed to mind too much that the common room had been monopolised for the evening. Some younger students even wished her a happy birthday, and others tried their luck with a swipe at the table of drinks until someone older managed to chase them away with a tickling charm.

The now notorious colour-changing nail polish was out again, and Hermione giggled at the sight of Justin Finch-Fletchley, Terry Boot, and Michael Corner lining up to receive a manicure, falling over one another in hysterics.

Parvati, Padma Patil, and Susan Bones were locked in a conspiratorial conversation on the rug by the fire, maintaining hushed tones until they seemed unable to take it anymore, exploding every few minutes in gales of raucous laughter. They were glancing furtively around the room with huge grins, and every so often Hermione thought she could hear the words ‘ _snog’_ , ‘ _marry’_ , and ‘ _avada’_ , so she imagined she had a fairly good idea of what exactly they were discussing. She was almost tempted to join in for a moment, looking around and wondering which faces in the room she could possibly be persuaded to kiss…

A lazy grin spread over her face. _Hermione Granger_ , she thought to herself. _You are drunk_.

She pulled herself back into the conversation around her, still grinning.

“D’you, do you, _hey_ , hey listen, do you reckon anyone’s ever brought a …. a _gun_ to a wizard duel?!” Harry was asking emphatically, his words thick and blurry under the influence of the mead in his hand. “Just like – ‘this’ll confuse ‘em!’, and then, _bang_!? Right?!”

Hermione collapsed into giggles. “Talk about the element of surprise!”

“What’s a gun?” asked Ron.

“It’s a muggle weapon that shoots out little bits of metal,” Hermione explained automatically. She held her hands up in a classic Charlie’s Angels pose. “P _ew_ , _pew_!”

Harry snickered at her poor sound effect and they both dissolved into laughter again.

“Doesn’t sound very dangerous to me? Surely you could just repel them?” suggested Ron, more confused than ever.

“They travel, like, hundreds of metres per second, Ron. Can you cast that fast?” Hermione countered. And then: “Oh, that rhymes!”

“But hey, don’ you jus’ think it would be really, really funny…if somebody turned up to a duel with a _fucking gun_?” repeated Harry, emphasising the last two words with enough force to send the entire group off into fits of laughter.

Shortly after this, Ginny pulled Harry up from the sofa to dance with her, and then it was just Ron and Hermione left. She felt her cheeks heat up, and it wasn’t just from the alcohol.

“Are you having a good time?” asked Ron, with a gentle smile and a squeeze of his hand on her leg.

“Yes,” she answered. Then, with a look down at her drink - “I think…I’m fairly drunk though.”

Ron grinned, leaning forward. “Me too.” Hermione leant away without thinking, and despite the rejection, Ron grinned suddenly. “Have you seen your birthday banners?”

“Of course, I saw them when I came in!” she said. “Can you tell me who made that big ugly one of my face, so I can jinx them?”

He laughed and tapped the side of his nose. “It’s a secret! But no, I meant have you seen the banners lately? Someone’s been around and had a bit of fun with them, have a look.”

She looked up and realised that the first banner she saw had been altered to read ‘ _Happy Birthday Hermio’_ to match Luna’s badge, and she snorted. “Hermio, gosh, that sounds like a Shakespeare-” she started, but broke off abruptly when her eyes alighted on the next banner.

Someone had scrawled ‘Weasley’ after the end of her name.

‘ _Happy Birthday Hermione Weasley’_.

Dread oozed into her stomach and she put her drink down suddenly, spilling some of it over her hand.

“Ron-”

“Exciting, isn’t it?” said Ron breathlessly. His face was flushed with excitement. “That we could have that, you know, one day. Don’t you think? Or you know, Granger-Weasley. Weasley-Granger. Whatever you wanted.”

He was so close. She could smell the firewhiskey on his breath, and even though he wasn’t doing anything wrong, and she was sat on a comfortable sofa in the middle of the Gryffindor common room, surrounded by people she loved and trusted, she suddenly felt very trapped.

“Er, Hermione?” said someone, and she leant thankfully away from Ron to look at the newcomer, dizzy with relief. Everything appeared slightly blurred, as if she was underwater, and she blinked a few times to try and clear her vision. Dennis Creevey was standing in front of them. “Sorry to interrupt, but, er, well… Draco Malfoy is outside the portrait hole. I told him he wasn’t invited, but he, uh, says he wants to speak to you? I’m sorry, he won’t go away.”

Hermione jumped up, and next to her, Ron also leapt to his feet, wand in hand. As if he had a sixth sense for trouble, Harry came pelting over to join them, in a move that would have been much more dramatic if he hadn’t misjudged his entrance and gone crashing into the sofa. He pulled himself up with a giggly “whoops!” as Ginny cackled madly from the other side of the room.

“Malfoy’s outside,” Ron told Harry urgently.

Harry’s face twisted, sobering instantly. “What on earth does he want?”

“Probably to make a fuss that he wasn’t invited. You stay here, Hermione, we’ll go sort him out-” started Ron.

“No!” she cried, with an intensity that made them both freeze. She cleared her throat and focused on enunciating her words as clearly as possible. “You will do no such thing. I invited him. I’ll go talk to him.”

“Are you mad?!”

“No, I’m not.” And she turned on her heel and marched over to the portrait hole, feeling very smug with herself until she veered drunkenly off course and into the wall.

* * *

Hermione hadn’t realised how much of an effect the dragon brandy would have on her hand-eye coordination, but it seemed to take her at least five times longer to climb through the portrait hole than normal. The passageway opened impatiently, and still crouched on her hands and knees, she found herself staring into the eyes of Draco Malfoy.

The urge to laugh almost overwhelmed her.

“Granger,” he said stiffly.

She bit her lip to keep from grinning. “Malfoy.”

She felt so completely daft, crouched in the portrait hole in front of him with her hair messy and dress askew, that she couldn’t hold it in any longer. And she started giggling.

To her surprise, Malfoy’s face split into a reluctant grin, which only made her laugh harder, until soon she was wheezing with the effort to draw breath.

When she finally managed to compose herself, he was still smiling. Hermione finally climbed the rest of the way through the portrait hole to stand in front of him, brushing herself down, suddenly bashful. He was wearing a dark blazer over a handsome green shirt, tucked into immaculately pressed trousers. They looked expensive. And they suited him. She noticed, objectively of course, that Draco Malfoy had grown into quite an attractive man. Especially when he smiled.

“You found us alright, then?” she asked uncertainly, trying to close that avenue of thoughts away.

“Of course,” he said. “But your moany portrait wouldn’t let me in.”

“I should think not!” cried the Fat Lady shrilly. “There’s a password for a reason, you know!”

“It’s alright,” Hermione told her. “He’s with me.”

Malfoy’s cheeks went slightly pink and she grinned at him. “I’ll warn you though, it’s a bit mad in there. I think some people are playing snog, marry, _avada_.” She considered him for a moment, frowning. “Hm. Well, I don’t _think_ I would avada you-”

“Granger, are… are you drunk?” Malfoy asked uncertainly.

“Yes,” she answered, unconcerned. “I’m nineteen!” And she threw her arms out as if that would explain everything.

Malfoy considered her, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I thought an ex-Prefect would never stand for alcohol consumption on school grounds.”

“It’s my birthday,” she said cheekily, grinning. Somewhere in his standoffish gaze, she spotted a flicker of something on the cusp of warmth.

“Speaking of, I, er, brought you this,” he said suddenly, pulling a bottle from behind his back. Hermione didn’t recognise the label, but it was clearly fizzy, alcoholic, and expensive. Champagne, she imagined. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like… I didn’t think you’d want one of my father’s Superior Reds because, well, _my father_ , but then I thought you probably wouldn’t want any elf-made wine either, because I heard about your Elvish Welfare thing… What do you think?”

Hermione thought that it looked fancier than anything else she had seen in the common room that night. And she was oddly touched.

“I think it’s perfect,” she told him, accepting the bottle with a smile, but he still seemed nervous, and Hermione realised suddenly how intimidating the thought of a Gryffindor party must be.

“Do you, er, want to come in?” she asked, gesturing to the portrait hole.

He looked momentarily panicked, as if he’d rather do quite literally anything else.

“It’s not too late to say no, you know. I’d understand,” Hermione said carefully, but Malfoy just scowled at her.

“I’m not wimping out.”

She stifled a laugh. Apparently even he was susceptible to reverse psychology.

“Alright then. Are you ready?”

He adjusted his blazer. “Completely,” he lied.

The Fat Lady was watching them in irritation when Hermione turned to face her. “Dirigible,” she said apologetically.

“About time,” said the Fat Lady snippily, and swung open to reveal the common room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of developments in this chapter - things are heating up! Side note: my headcanon is that Parvati is half-blood, hence her usage of muggle expressions.  
> There will be a short hiatus over the festive period, but I hope to be back with a vengeance (and more regular updates) in the new year.  
> Thanks for reading! And happy holidays!


	5. "A Bouquet Feels Appropriate"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second half of Hermione's birthday party, and a deal is made...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another TW here for moderate alcohol consumption.  
> And hooray, it only took five chapters, but we've reached the major plot point! Let's go!

Hermione wasn’t sure if she was just being dramatic, but the second she and Malfoy emerged into the common room, it felt as if the music went quiet and every eye turned their way. She felt Malfoy freeze behind her, and she was very suddenly aware of some kind of fierce protectiveness in her chest.

“Hello everyone!” she announced as cheerfully as she could. “Er, Malfoy is here!”

She was met with total silence. Biting her lip as she tried desperately to think of the right words to say, she wished for a moment that she hadn’t drunk quite so much brandy. “He’s a guest. He’s, er…cool. I invited him. And, er, if anyone starts anything, I’ll hex you. Well, actually, I won’t, because I don’t approve of that kind of thing, but I think he would. Probably.”

There was a ripple of laughter around the room and she felt the tension ease slightly, but not entirely. Some people were staring at her as if she’d just dragged a snargaluff stump into the common room and suggested they engage it in polite conversation. Ron was glaring murderously at Malfoy from his position by the drinks table.

And then, all of a sudden, a lone voice piped up from the far corner. Luna was sat on a table, swinging her legs gently to and fro, the tip of her wand pressed thoughtfully into her cheek. “You were kind to me last year,” she said.

There was a heavy silence in the room, laden with disbelief.

“When Mister Ollivander and I were in the cellar. It was really cold. And you brought me a blanket. Didn’t you?

Malfoy looked as if he would like nothing more than to lock himself away in the aforementioned cellar. He looked desperately down at the floor for a moment before taking a breath and meeting Hermione’s curious eyes. And then he gave a sudden, almost imperceptible nod. Her cheeks felt hot.

Luna smiled and tilted her head to one side. “Thank you, Draco.”

The tension broke. Hermione could have kissed her.

Luna was just one of those people that others trusted. Her appraisal of him rippled outwards, a rosette of acceptance to be worn like a badge of honour. Now, he would be at least be tolerated. Hermione was sure that certain individuals would take more convincing, but for now, it was enough.

The music resumed and the room steadily filled once more with chatter.

Hermione smiled with relief and turned to Malfoy, only to notice that he looked to be almost on the point of passing out. He looked so unsettled that she put a hand on his arm to steady him, but his face took on an expression even more akin to a rabbit stuck in the headlights, so she stepped away quickly. “Are you okay?” she asked, and with what appeared to be a great deal of effort, he blinked away whatever panic had descended on him, nodded mutely, and resumed his usual, unaffected expression.

“Drink?” Hermione suggested awkwardly. He nodded once more; and together they stepped out into the middle of the common room.

Malfoy seemed to be taking in as much of his surroundings as possible, and as he did so, Hermione watched the anxiety drop away from his features. He was gazing around him in poorly-disguised awe, and as she looked with him, it was almost as if she was seeing it for the first time all over again. The cosy beamed ceiling. The plush armchairs and sofas. The luxurious carpets. The roaring fireplace. The people scattered around with drinks in hand, dancing and chatting and laughing. The balloons and banners. The enchanted origami fluttering around the ceiling. The candles and sconces full of yellow light. The tall stained-glass windows. Magic hung in the air, warm and decadent, and it felt to Hermione like stepping into a warm bath, her eyes sliding shut in comfort. She wondered whether he felt it the same way.

“I bet you’re the first Slytherin to be in here in a long time,” she commented absently, and Malfoy let out a breath that sounded almost like a chuckle.

“I dread to think what my ancestors would say,” he murmured.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t tell them, then,” said Hermione cheekily, starting to peel away the gold foil from the champagne bottle. She had decided to open his gift now, for fear someone else might pinch it if left unattended, and was so busy with this task, in fact, that she nearly missed Malfoy’s amused smirk.

The cork burst free with a carrying pop that made some nearby people whoop and someone behind her shriek loudly. Several attempts at an incantation and a few swear words later, she had managed to transfigure her goblet into a champagne flute and pass Malfoy a duplicate. An inexplicable blush appeared to bloom on his cheeks as Hermione filled them to the brim.

“You ought to have a toast,” he murmured.

“Oh, you don’t need to-”

His familiar smirk reappeared. “Deal with it.” He cleared his throat and raised his glass to her. “To you. The ‘brightest witch of our age’,” he said. “Hermione Granger.”

Her heart swelled, and warmth hummed through her veins for a reason other than the alcohol. “Hermione _Jean_ Granger,” she added, for no reason at all.

“Alright. Hermione Jean Granger.”

She tapped her glass against his with slightly more force than intended. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” he repeated, and she took a drink to hide her sudden blush.

The champagne was strong and tart, the bubbles fizzing up her nose and all the way down her throat. Her tongue tingled, making her giggle. “This is wonderful!” she laughed. “Thank you!”

And she saw him grin then, a real grin, and it made her own smile widen. The danger had passed. They were okay. And she felt giddy.

“You said I was cool,” Malfoy said with a smirk, and Hermione’s thoughts came back to earth with a bump, embarrassment taking over. “Earlier, when you introduced me.”

“No I - well, I - I didn’t mean like… _cool_ cool… Well, uh, I guess maybe you are, I suppose, but I meant more like… _we_ are. _We’re_ cool. Right?” she stammered, and took a gulp – too large – of champagne. 

He laughed at her, but not unkindly, as she spluttered. “Have you ever drunk anything stronger than butterbeer before?” he asked, apparently genuinely curious.

“Um, once or twice. We had a few drinks sometimes, at the Burrow – er, Ron’s house – but probably never this much. I’ve never had, er, Dragon Barrel Brandy before tonight.”

“Dragon Barrel? No wonder!” he exclaimed, and she shoved him playfully, realising suddenly that she felt comfortable touching him. It was as if putting a hand on his arm earlier had broken some kind of contact barrier.

“Thank you for coming,” she said softly. She half expected him to go quiet again, but instead their eyes met, and Hermione thought that he seemed at once very intense and very vulnerable.

“It’s the first time I’ve hung out with anyone at Hogwarts this year,” he said. There was something else in his expression there, almost like a thank you that he couldn’t quite bring himself to say.

“Do you miss your friends?” she asked him, before she could help it. She had been thinking of the Slytherins that had decided against returning to Hogwarts, but she realised as soon as she opened her mouth that her question might remind him instead of someone who never got to make that choice.

He was silent for a moment, and Hermione thought of flames, and broomsticks, and a diadem. “Yes,” he said eventually. “But I doubt I’m the only one.”

Hermione thought of Parvati’s nail polish, and Ron’s face at the lake, and then of her own parents, unknowing and oblivious, on the other side of the world. And thought that she agreed with him.

Malfoy’s voice pulled her out of her reverie. “But it does mean I get a dormitory to myself, so I can’t complain.”

“You do? You lucky thing! McGonagall made us share with the 7th years. How come Slughorn didn’t do the same for you?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Just some unexpected charitability, I think,” he said, but Hermione didn’t quite believe that that was the whole truth. “Either way, it’s pretty handy.”

She laughed. “Handy?! I’m surprised you come to the library at all when you’ve got a whole dormitory to yourself!”

He gave a small, almost guilty grin, and something in her leapt a little.

At that moment, she felt an arm descend around her shoulders and she startled, nearly dropping her glass. Looking up to see Ron’s blue eyes, she immediately found herself wondering whether it would be him or Malfoy who would be first to pick a fight. Was it wrong of her to be so sceptical?

“Hey Hermione. _Malfoy_ ,” Ron said. Hermione may have been tipsy, but she could hear the tension in his voice and see the way his eyes narrowed. Nope, she thought. She wasn’t wrong at all.

“Weasley,” Malfoy replied coolly.

“Got bored of your own common room, did you?” asked Ron. He was slightly unsteady on his feet, but there was an intensity in his gaze. “Don’t blame you. Nasty green lighting. Made me want to vom.”

If Malfoy was shocked to discover that Ron had seen the Slytherin common room, he didn’t show it. “Perhaps,” he said flatly.

At this, Ron seemed to become even more determined to provoke a response. “I see you didn’t make the quidditch team this year, did you, huh? No more bribes from daddy?”

“You don’t know the first thing about my father, Weasley.” Malfoy said quietly, the edge to his voice as sharp as a dagger.

Ron snorted, pulling at the chink in Malfoy’s armour like a loose thread. “I know he’s rotting in Azkaban,” he grinned. “Too bad you can’t sneak one of your little vanishing cabinets past the Dementors.”

Malfoy clenched his fists at his sides but otherwise remained stoic. “Too bad I don’t know who broke your leg.”

Ron frowned at him. “What?”

“Well, you see, I would quite like to have given them flowers. A bouquet feels appropriate, don’t you think?”

It took Hermione an inordinate amount of effort to stop herself from laughing. Ron’s face twisted into a scowl and he reached for his wand, but she grabbed his arm before the bicker could develop into a full-blown duel. “Ron, please. Stop it. Go and talk to Seamus, he’ll get you some water.”

Ron shot her a betrayed look, but thankfully turned on his heel and stormed off to complain to someone else.

She let out a breath. “I’m sorry,” she said to Malfoy.

But he looked at her oddly. “It’s not _your_ fault.”

Well. She couldn’t argue with that.

Malfoy was silent for a second more, while they both take an awkward drink, but when he spoke again it was careful, calculated. “Would Weasley’s broken leg have anything to do with those construction textbooks I saw you with last week?” he asked.

Hermione froze, staring down into the glass in her hand, her tongue solidifying in her mouth. Whatever she had expected him to say, that wasn’t it. The music thumped on in the background. “I don’t know what you mean-” she mumbled unconvincingly.

“I know Gryffindor lost a chunk of points that night,” he said quickly, deftly. “And all the rubble at the South corridor disappeared overnight. You told me you were trying to fix something. You were in the out of bounds areas, weren’t you, both of you? And no doubt Potter too. Were you trying to rebuild the castle?”

“Shhh!” Hermione hissed. She glanced around, half expecting to see someone staring at them in shock. But everyone was too wrapped up in the drink and the music and the company to care what the two of them might be talking about.

“So it _is_ true?!” Malfoy cried jubilantly.

“Just leave it! I already regret it enough.”

He stayed silent for a long moment. Hermione was just about to utter some half-baked excuse and slope away from him to escape the awkwardness, when he fixed her with a sudden, bold stare that made her stomach flip. She blamed the alcohol. “I want to help,” he said decisively.

Never mind, now that was the most unexpected thing he’d said that night. She gaped at him. “You’re not serious.”

“I am. I’ve got a lot of sorrys to say, remember?”

“Wha-?” Hermione closed her mouth around the unintentional word, embarrassed. A cauldron of emotions was bubbling away in her stomach, hopeful, shocked, pleased, scared, despairing. She took a long, careful drink from her glass, and Malfoy watched her, waiting expectantly.

“Look, I’m sorry,” she said finally. “But it’s over. None of the others want to help anymore, not since Ron’s injury. Everyone’s given up.”

“Have you?”

She stared at him, unnerved. She felt oddly exposed beneath his steely grey gaze.

 _Of course_ she hadn’t given up. But ever since she had come to the understanding that she would be alone in her mission, the fire in her chest had dwindled. It wasn’t that she’d _abandoned_ her desire to make a change, she’d just…misplaced it.

Deciding that she didn’t know how to answer the question, she settled for shrugging non-committally and looking around the room as if the frivolity was entirely fascinating. Ron was gesticulating violently in an intense conversation with Ernie and Anthony at the other end of the room, Ginny was practically sat on Harry’s lap, knocking back firewhiskey, and Luna and Neville were playing an intense game of exploding snap amongst a knot of eager onlookers.

It was very warm.

“Granger.”

She looked reluctantly back at him. The champagne was pleasantly acidic on her tongue, and she felt strangely light and heavy all at once.

“I just want to help,” Malfoy said again, simply.

“Why?” she couldn’t help herself asking.

He scowled. “Let me come with you and I’ll tell you.”

The ever-curious part of her jumped at this offer, but the rest of her remained more sceptical. As much as she wanted to continue her rebuilding efforts, she’d certainly never imagined embarking on such a mission with the man currently staring intently at her over the top of his champagne glass. The idea was almost laughable. Did she really want to get herself in for a year of rule-breaking with Draco Malfoy by her side?

Their gazes locked.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but something squeezed pleasurably in her chest, and she realised that maybe, just maybe… she did.

“Okay,” she said eventually, a little breathlessly. “Meet me after potions on Monday?”

A slow smile spread across his face, and Hermione was too buoyed up by the alcohol in her veins to feel guilty about how much she thought she liked it.

* * *

The moment Hermione bid Malfoy goodnight that evening, and he’d vanished through the portrait hole, Ron strode up to her and took her hand with more force than strictly necessary. There was a fire in his eyes.

“Hermione,” he said. “Come to bed with me?”

Her stomach contracted with annoyance, and her eyes darted around the common room, looking for an excuse. “Not tonight,” she said, pulling her hand out of his. “You’re drunk.”

He retreated, hurt. “But I want to be with you.”

She scowled at him. “Well I don’t!”

He looked stunned. “Wh-”

“Are you going to offer _any_ explanation for your behaviour towards Malfoy earlier?” she demanded.

Ron looked as if he couldn’t believe what she was saying. “What explanation does it need? It’s _Malfoy_! Did you not hear how delighted he was about my leg? It _still_ hurts!”

“For goodness’ sake Ron, you started it! All he did was retort. Maybe you shouldn’t have talked about his father like that!”

“Have you forgotten all those years of bullying – oh yeah, and him literally _joining the_ _Dark Lord?!_ After everything he’s done! I can’t _believe_ you brought him here! I was so excited to spend your birthday with you and instead I had to watch you and Malfoy drinking _champagne_ together! Merlin, Hermione, do you understand how that makes me feel?”

Confused guilt shot through her body like a curse.

Ron took her hand again, more gently this time, and turned her palm upwards. Revulsion in her throat, she stared down at the scarlet letters carved unforgivingly into her forearm. _Mudblood_. It looked as fresh as the day it happened. She tore her eyes away, feeling sick to her stomach.

“I will _never_ forgive him for standing by and letting that happen to you,” Ron said quietly.

She shut her eyes, nausea roiling inside her. Was their argument her fault? Was she being totally naïve? Should she forgive Malfoy so easily? Was she asking too much for her friends to do the same?

She was completely overwhelmed, and she realised suddenly that she was in danger of crying.

The alcohol had suddenly become too much, too quickly. Her pride and her fury and her determination had all been capsized by guilt and grief, and she didn’t really know how she felt about anything anymore.

She buried her head in Ron’s chest, _safe_ , _familiar_ , _easy,_ and he held her close. All her fractured uncertainties started to pull together, melding into nothingness inside the circle of his arms. He pressed a soft, undemanding kiss to her forehead.

“You’ll be alright. I’m sorry for shouting. I’m sorry. I know you only invited him so he wouldn’t feel left out. I know you meant well.”

She couldn’t bring herself to say anything yet. It was like she could physically _feel_ how much he loved her, how terrified he was of her getting hurt. Something about it left her feeling stricken with uncertainty, like it was a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep.

“Look, uh, you can say no, and that would be absolutely fine, but I really want to be with you tonight. Will you come to bed with me?” Ron asked gently.

She nodded fervently into his chest this time, not trusting herself to emerge just yet, and Ron squeezed her again.

He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t always right. But at least he made her feel safe.

“Come on.”

He led her up the dormitory staircase, unseen by the rest of the students still laughing and drinking downstairs, to bed.

And as Hermione drifted off to sleep curled in his arms, that last thought that occurred to her was how nice it was simply to be with him. No discomfort, no rising pressure for anything physical, anything sexual. To just _be_.

Was that normal?

* * *

Hermione woke up unsure how many hours later, feeling both hot and cold at the same time, her mouth dry, and her skull feeling as fragile as an eggshell. A quick fumble for her wand allowed her to get herself some water, but she’d never before had a reason to research the best charm for curing a hangover, so she was at a loss for what else to do. She pulled herself away from where Ron’s clammy hand laid uncomfortably on her waist.

Feeling restless and in desperate want of a bath, she nudged Ron awake enough to kiss him goodbye, and sat up, pulling her dress on over her head.

Mercifully, the other occupants of the boys’ dormitory were soundly asleep, so she was able to pad across the room to the door and into her own dormitory without eliciting any knowing glances or impish comments.

She paused only briefly to grab some belongings and apologise under her breath to a grumpy-looking Crookshanks, who she had woken up, and then she was off again. She knew she wasn’t really supposed to use the Prefects’ bathroom anymore, but it was hardly her fault that the password hadn’t been changed in five years.

It was only just gone 8am, so she remained unaccosted all the way down to the 5th floor. She knew she would suffer for her lack of sleep later, but right now she was eager to shock herself awake and get on with the day.

Several minutes later, as she slipped into the bath, she realised she had grossly overestimated how much of a shock she needed, and she leapt out of the ice-cold water with a shriek. Shivering as she refilled the tub at a more appropriate temperature, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

She was covered in goosebumps, every follicle on her body standing to attention against the cold. Had the hair on her forearms always been that dark? She stepped closer, examining herself. Her lips were white, and a vivid red reaction to Ron’s stubble was beginning to pepper itself into existence across the skin of her chin and cheeks. Her hair was wild, returned to its chaotic natural state. She was inordinately pale.

Taking all of this into consideration, Hermione thought she rather liked the way she looked, imperfections and all. She didn’t much care for what others might think of her appearance, not even Ron. She liked that he liked her, of course. But she wasn’t sure if it really mattered all that much to her.

She thought of him for a moment. He had a warm, open kind of face, and she liked the way his freckles danced down his cheeks and onto his chest. He was nice, she thought. But imagining him here with her… she didn’t know if it filled her with the same kind of want he seemed to feel for her.

Ron had a way of being harsh at the same time he was gentle. He rarely listened when she wanted him to. He had a tendency to make fun of the things she was proud of about herself.

She tore herself away from the mirror and tested the bathwater again. It was perfect. Sinking down into it, she closed her eyes. The warm water cradled her skin, soothing some of her aches and pains, washing away the frivolities of the night before.

Ron loved her despite all of the things he teased her for. He shared things with her that he didn’t tell anyone else. He’d been a part of her life for so long that she didn’t know if she could see a future without him.

And yet… The thought of being Mrs Hermione Weasley was, quite frankly, terrifying.

Maybe she was just too young to think of marriage. That’s right, she decided. She had a whole career to set in motion before she could even think of settling down. Her success would come first. And perhaps her life was in place, she would start wanting all of _that_.

With Ron.

There were so many things to think about, but it was all so far in the future. All those big decisions for her love life could come later. She was… content with Ron. She enjoyed spending time with him. He made her smile. And that was enough for now, right?

Much more imminently…there was the small issue of reinstating the castle renovations, and the associated rulebreaking...

…With Malfoy.

* * *

The breakfast table was an interesting sight that morning.

Ginny was sat rigidly at a bench with her arms tightly folded, glowering at a stack of pancakes as if they’d managed to personally offend her. Ron was shoving sausages and bacon into his mouth with the desperation of a starving man, offset only minutely by the obvious pain elicited with every chew. And Harry was simply lying face down in his bowl of cereal.

“Morning everyone,” said Hermione brightly.

There was a dull ache in her head, but she felt a million times better than they all looked. Unsurprisingly, there was a fairly unenthusiastic response to her greeting. Harry raised a hand to wave but remained otherwise firmly buried in his cheerie-owls.

Ginny winced as Hermione took a seat. “Is it always this bright in here?” she whispered.

In response, Hermione grabbed Harry’s discarded glasses from next to the butter dish and transfigured the lenses a shade or five darker. Emitting a groan of satisfaction that made Neville go a little pink, Ginny jammed the bespoke sunglasses over her nose and sank gratefully into a slouch. “No-one talk to me,” she said, and set about eating with such ferocity that Hermione couldn’t help but feel highly sympathetic for the pancakes involved.

“Feeling particularly chipper today, are we?” she joked drily.

Ron looked up from his full English as if noticing her for the first time. “I’ll be fine once I’ve eaten half my body weight in sausages,” he pronounced.

“I don’t know how you can stand greasy food right now,” said Seamus from along the bench, looking a tad green. “I don’t think I’ll ever eat again.”

“Have you seen how much I’m shaking?” asked Neville, holding out a wobbly hand to demonstrate. “If I don’t get some food in me, I’ll pass out halfway up the Gryffindor tower.”

“Looks like Harry’s already there,” Hermione commented, eyeing the milk splatter around his bowl. “Has anyone checked to make sure he’s not drowning?”

Parvati leaned over him. “You good?”

Harry grunted.

“He’s good,” confirmed Parvati, surprisingly the only clear-headed individual at the table, and returned to her breakfast.

“Does anyone know any hangover charms?” asked Dean unsteadily, reaching for the toast rack and looking pointedly at Hermione.

“Hangover charms make you feel ten times worse for a while before you feel better,” answered Seamus. “And I genuinely think that if I felt any worse… I would die.”

“I guess the _cruciatus_ curse has nothing on a bottle of Pixie-Pot Rum,” said Neville devilishly.

Seamus groaned and threw his face down into his plate in imitation of Harry, slightly less successful for the way his forehead collided with a milk jug and sent the lot cascading into Dean’s lap.

Hermione grinned to herself. If there was one thing she was grateful to hangovers for, it was for preventing anyone from asking about why Malfoy had shown up the night before. Either it was considered unimportant compared to their headaches, or they just didn’t mind. Either way, it suited Hermione. 

* * *

The weekend was over too quickly, and classes hit again on Monday with the force of a sledgehammer. Hermione would probably feel a lot less weighed down if she wasn’t worrying so much about the prospect of meeting Malfoy that evening, especially off the back of her conversation with Ron on Saturday night.

Hermione knew without even having to think about it, that she couldn’t tell Ron what she was planning. He would never understand. And if she couldn’t tell Ron… she couldn’t tell anyone.

Guilt seeped into her stomach, but it was accompanied by a flash of excitement. She wasn’t used to keeping secrets from Harry or Ron, and the thrill of it set her heart hammering. It bubbled up in her chest and made her feel so giddy that Slughorn had to remind her twice to extinguish her cauldron fire at the end of class.

When the final bell rang, she tried to take as much time packing her bag as humanly possible. Trying not to seem nervous, she told Harry to go on without her, muttering something about needing to ask Slughorn a question. Thankfully he complied without question, and a part of her wondered briefly whether it was the allure of dinner or the threat of listening to her quiz Slughorn that held the greater weight in his decision. Slughorn disappeared into a store cupboard and the other 8th years filed out of the classroom as she faffed about with a bookmark in her textbook, one by one, until she was alone.

Alone…except for one person.

She held her breath as his footsteps approached. “Granger,” said Malfoy.

Cramming the last of her things back into her bag, she turned to face him, heart beating very fast. “Malfoy.”

The corner of his lip quirked and for a moment she wanted to laugh at the nervous look on his face. Less than a year ago, it would have been inconceivable to imagine him wearing any other expression but contempt and disdain. And yet here he was.

“So…” he started. “Should we-”

“We need to find somewhere we can talk unnoticed,” she said quickly, and he nodded.

“I would suggest the Room of Requirement, but…”

Their eyes met for a moment before looking away, the moment suddenly too intense. Hermione imagined they both remembered far too well what happened the last time they were in the room of requirement.

Slughorn chose this moment to come bustling back into the classroom and did a double take at the sight of the two of them standing together.

Malfoy hitched his bag further onto his shoulder and strode out of the room as fast as he could, leaving her staring dumbly after him.

“Is, er, is everything quite alright?” Slughorn asked as if he’d rather not, fiddling uncomfortably with a button on his velvet waistcoat.

She blinked herself out of a daze and mumbled at the floor. “Yes sir.”

“Jolly good!” Slughorn broke into a smile, clearly relieved. “Excellent job on your blood-replenishing potion today, Miss Granger, really excellent. You won’t forget the Slug Club reopening party, will you? I’ve heard such rumours about your Gringotts escapade last year, I’ve been simply dying to know-”

“I’m sure you’ll get it out of me one of these days, sir,” she replied knowingly, and he chuckled.

“Oh yes, oh yes! This Friday evening, it’s a little fancier than usual, you understand, just a little do to celebrate us all being back at Hogwarts! I would tell you to bring a plus one, but of course Potter and Weasley already have their invites!” he continued merrily. “Do make sure they attend, won’t you? Don’t forget now!”

“Yes sir…” Hermione mumbled as she headed out of the door, annoyed that she didn’t manage to leave fast enough to avoid a Slug Club invite. There was no way in hell that Harry would go, which meant that Ginny and Ron wouldn’t go either, and then it would doubtless just leave her and a bunch of strangers and too much mead, forcing them into exchanging shallow pleasantries around Slughorn’s enormous belly.

The image was so clear in her mind that she didn’t pay attention on her way out of the classroom and managed to bump viciously into Malfoy. Her face collided with his shoulder and she let out an ‘ _oof_!’ before she managed to steady herself.

“Sorry,” she said thickly, rubbing at her nose as her eyes watered. “Ow. Did you have to stand so close to the door?”

He grinned before he could stop himself. “Need an _episkey_?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m perfectly competent enough to perform my own _episkey_ , thank you. But no, no broken bones here. Where shall we head?”

“The muggle studies classroom is usually empty after hours,” he suggested.

It sounded as if he had attempted it before. She raised an eyebrow at him and he blushed, confirming her suspicions.

“I snuck down last week to see if I could find that diagram on the muggle educational system,” he explained, still pink cheeked. “It’s nothing sordid.”

“Wha-” she gaped. “I meant nothing of the sort!”

“Sure,” he said archly, and with a small smirk, turned on his heel and set off towards the staircase so rapidly that she had to run to catch up with him. Of course he would do that on purpose. What a prat.

When they reconvened up on the first floor, gasping, they wandered through the artifact room and into the deserted muggle studies classroom. Hermione threw her heavy bag down onto the floor and skipped over to a seat, placing her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, attempting to return her breathing to normal. “So,” she said.

“So.” He sank onto a seat a little way away, smiling wryly, frustratingly composed. “I did some reading.”

Well, there was Hermione’s favourite phrase in the entire English language.

She could practically feel her eyes light up, and she forgot rather immediately about her annoyance. “You did?” she asked breathlessly.

He smirked. “I thought it would be a good idea to get a founding in magical masonry and woodworking. There’s a lot more to it than I thought,” he explained.

“I felt the same way! It was a bit overwhelming! What did you think about Ordansky’s chapter on visualisation? I thought it was fascinating to see how-” she cut herself off, noticing Malfoy’s amused stare. “Never mind. I, er, I think it’s probably a good idea for us to start small and work up to the big stuff, and then hopefully we can work out what we need to learn as we get better?”

He nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

There was pause, and then he looked down at his lap, almost shy. “And I, er… I liked the visualisation theory. I thought it made a lot of sense.”

She glowed slightly.

“But anyway. I assume you already tried the south corridor?” continued Malfoy. “What happened?”

She sighed and began to explain. Though she expected him to be horrified when she mentioned the minor inconvenience of hundreds of potentially deadly curses hidden around the castle, waiting to be unearthed by an unsuspecting Gryffindor/Slytherin duo, Malfoy’s face pulled instead into a thoughtful frown.

“I wonder if there’s a way to detect them?”

“The only warning we had last time was a slight flash of light – as if the spell was just being cast. Other than that, we had no idea.”

“Hm.” There was a pause. “Well that could make things difficult.”

Her face fell. “Look, if it’s too dangerous, I completely understand, you don’t need to put yourself at risk by coming with me.”

“Are you mad, Granger? I’m not backing out now.”

“You still want to help?” she asked in disbelief.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t plan on seeing it through,” he said, as if offended. “Whether you like it or not, Granger, you’re stuck with me.”

Their eyes met, faces solemn. And Hermione smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be coming much more regularly now, most likely 1 or 2 chapters every week until the competition deadline in March. Thanks so much for reading, and if you have the time to drop me a comment to let me know what you think, that would be amazing!


	6. "We Should Start A Club"

Hermione’s mind was still racing when she got to the great hall for dinner that night.

Malfoy’s words had clearly left her looking as frazzled as she felt, because when she sat down at the bench, Luna immediately abandoned her meal in favour of batting her hands about Hermione’s ears with such fervour that Neville dropped his fork in alarm. Hermione knew better than to interrupt the Ravenclaw, so she looked down at her plate, trying not to laugh, until she was finished.

“Wrackspurts,” Luna said eventually, turning abruptly away and heaping a second serving of roast potatoes onto her plate as if nothing had happened. “You’re full of them today.”

“Thanks Luna,” Hermione said, and reached for a slice of lasagne as Neville dove off the bench to retrieve his fork.

She and Malfoy had agreed to meet down by the south corridor after curfew. Malfoy had reasoned that the professors wouldn’t bother patrolling somewhere both out of bounds and entirely inaccessible, so it made sense to concentrate all their efforts on the south wing on the other side, leaving the corridor itself alone. Hermione couldn’t quite believe she hadn’t thought of it herself.

She was ridiculously nervous, but she also couldn’t deny her excitement at another rule-defying adventure. Her blood felt fizzy in her fingertips, and she couldn’t concentrate on the dinner conversation around her.

She tried to focus her gaze on her food while her mind whirled through all the ways their plans could go horribly wrong. If they got caught, it wasn’t like with Ron; they couldn’t pretend that they’d simply snuck out for a snog. The thought made her blush.

“Sickle for your thoughts?”

She looked up abruptly, knocking her teeth against her fork and wincing. Ron was smiling gently at her from across the table. His lips quirked, and the memory of sleeping next to him on Saturday night dressed in only her underwear leapt into her mind as vividly as if he had implanted it via Legilimency.

Her blush deepened and she looked back at her plate. She definitely wouldn’t be sharing any thoughts with him that contained ‘Malfoy’ and ‘snog’ in the same sentence.

She wondered briefly if it was cruel of her not to tell Ron about her plans that night. There was a part of her that felt like she should be able to tell him anything, and yet when she imagined talking to him about a plot to rebuild the castle with Malfoy… she knew exactly how angry and upset he would be. She didn’t want to do that to him.

And so she rolled her eyes good-naturedly and took a sip of pumpkin juice. “I’m thinking about Paracelsus’ _Philosophia Magna_ and the alchemical significance of his four elementals,” she fibbed, and took pride in the resultant uncomprehending horror on Ron’s face.

* * *

It was a good thing that it was a Quidditch night, Hermione thought, as she surveyed the empty common room. There was nothing quite like spending three hours flying around in the rain with a broomstick clenched between your knees to ensure you wanted nothing more than to go straight to bed afterwards. Or so she had been told.

As a result, by the time curfew descended, most of her immediate friends were safely tucked up in their dormitories. She wondered, not for the first time, how she had managed to end up in a friendship group full of quidditch fanatics.

Neville and Seamus were hanging out in the corner of the common room, but they were thankfully so engrossed in whatever essays they were working on that Hermione managed to slip by unnoticed. A first year in front of the fire looked up at her with a scandalised expression as she edged towards the portrait hole, but they didn’t comment, and so she made it through.

The Fat Lady admonished her as she walked past, but Hermione paid her no mind. She doubted the portrait really cared about one more student sneaking out past curfew, when she had been watching the comings-and-goings of rule-breakers for the last several hundred years. Rules were such an important feature of Hogwarts life that breaking them was practically tradition.

Hermione snorted. If her eleven-year-old self could see her now…

She hurried down the corridor, sticking to the shadows as much as possible. With the school staff numbers so low at the moment, there was unlikely to be many patrols out and about, so the chances of bumping into anyone were pretty slim, but she’d still rather not be caught out of bed for the second time in as many weeks. She paused briefly to cast a disillusionment charm on herself, just in case.

Drawing her cloak tighter around her shoulders, she sped on. The south corridor finally came into view, and she was looking forward to resting for a moment to get her breath back, when she realised she wasn’t actually the first to arrive.

“You’re late,” said Malfoy, to a patch of air just to the left of her face.

She removed her disillusionment charm, and his eyes focused in on her. “I’m not,” she retorted. “We said after curfew. It’s after curfew.”

Malfoy sniffed and turned away, staring down into the abyss that used to be the south corridor. “If you got here last, you got here late. I’ve been waiting ages.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well in that case, I’m sure you’ll want to get cracking as soon as possible. Off you go,” she chirped, and turned her wand on him with the utmost satisfaction.

Malfoy fought to retain his dignity for all it was worth, even as her levitation spell scooted him unceremoniously into the air and dumped him onto the far side of the corridor with all the grace of a de-gnoming victim. Not to be outdone, Malfoy retaliated immediately with a spiteful summoning charm that sent her flying across the gap and colliding into him.

After extricating themselves from a tangle on the floor, rather embarrassed and grumbling softly, they each took a moment to survey the ground before them, and Hermione suddenly realised the gravity of what they were about to do.

They were in the south wing now. Forbidden territory.

She froze, sweeping her gaze from side to side as if she was expecting to see the corridor light up with giant arrows labelled ‘INVISIBLE CURSE HERE’.

They could be surrounded by the bloody things right now, and she wouldn’t have a clue. Oh, what on _Earth_ was she doing? If Ron and Harry knew where she was right now, they would think her a complete and utter basket case. She was wandering into a literal deathtrap full of curses that she couldn’t see, with no one but an ex-death-eater for company. What was she letting herself in for?

She imagined that Malfoy could see it on her face. “Not getting cold feet, are you Granger?” he challenged, but there was an uncertainty to his words. He was scared too.

“No,” Hermione lied, kicking one of the aforementioned feet in his direction. He sneered at her, unimpressed, then decisively turned on his heel and began to head off along the corridor.

She made to follow him but had barely taken a step before the true weight of what they were walking into came crashing down about her shoulders. Every wooden board beneath her feet could carry a dark hex, a ticking time-bomb, a grenade simply waiting for the barest pressure to explode.

And there, in the darkness of a corridor lit only barely by chinks of starlight, blind to both her physical surroundings and the invisible dangers they held, it hit Hermione for the first time how utterly defenceless she was in a place where everything around her had the potential to explode without a moment’s warning. This wasn’t like the dangers she had faced before. No one was advancing on her with a wand and the intention to kill shining clear in their eyes. This enemy was invisible, and silent, and unpredictable. She didn’t know how to beat this.

Her _lumos_ flickered and then died, her hands shaking so hard that her wand almost fell. She wanted to scream with frustration, but her tongue felt thick and heavy in her throat, and her chest was tight against her lungs.

She wanted to take a step forward, but the fear of the unknown had her frozen to the spot. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe slowly and deeply through her nose, feeling her heart hammering against her ribs all the while.

The helpless terror that squeezed her from all sides sent her brain spiralling back to another night, a thousand years ago, a thousand miles away, where she lay immobile and powerless on the floor of a manor house.

She didn’t realise she had a shield charm up until she heard Draco’s voice, strangely muffled by the magical barrier.

“Granger,” he said, and the urgency in his voice shocked her into looking up.

She let her shield fall, still shaking, and he stepped closer, clearly unsure what to do.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, in which Hermione wished desperately that she could react, or move, or speak, but nothing happened. She just stared blankly at him, a wordless plea for help unspoken on her lips. His eyes bored into hers, and then he was bending down to crouch in front of her.

Wordlessly, numbly, Hermione watched as he placed his hands at the tops of her arms and squeezed. She had expected softness, but his touch was firm, almost harsh. Grounding. His expression was completely unreadable, but Hermione felt as if everything in her heart must be visible in her eyes, spilling over at the edges like the disturbed surface of a lake.

His fingers squeezed even harder, and it was like a seal had broken.

“Oh!” she gasped, and collapsed in on herself, suddenly completely mortified. “I’m so sorry!”

His expression didn’t alter, but he snatched his arms away from her. “Don’t.”

They stared at one another from their crouched positions on the floor of the abandoned corridor, the only light from the tip of Malfoy’s wand, stashed hurriedly in a pocket of his robes.

Despite the carefully schooled blank expression on his face, Hermione could see his concern. She wondered if she’d somehow started learning how to read him.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, and it occurred to Hermione that he was genuinely asking her not to. “These things happen.”

She dragged a hand roughly across her eyes and took a long, deep breath, trying to force herself into calmness. She _was_ fine. She would be fine. The only thing she had to do was trust that they wouldn’t encounter any one of the hundreds of dark curses held within these walls. Her heart constricted a little in her chest.

“Malfoy, do you… do you think that any of the curses here could be… the _cruciatus_?” she asked, and suddenly his blank expression became one of stricken understanding.

There was silence, punctuated only by her attempts to regain a normal breathing pattern.

“I don’t know,” he admitted softly.

She nodded, unwilling to speak. There was another long silence, and she slowly got to her feet, pulling her cloak closer about her frame. He copied her, and watched as she hesitantly cast a new _lumos_ , lighting up the deserted corridor around them.

Then, suddenly-

“Do you trust me?” Malfoy asked.

What a question. Hermione felt like she should be unsure of the answer, but it leapt into her mind unbidden. Again, Ron and Harry would think she was crazy. She looked up at Malfoy, into the face that had sneered at her, had threatened her, had watched her silently as she experienced the worst pain she would ever feel in her life.

And somehow, she was able to reply- “Yes.”

“Good,” he said, as if that was the end of that.

“Good,” she repeated. She bit her lip, suddenly struck by how bizarre this all was.

He glanced at her, an amused crease appearing at the side of his mouth. “Good,” he said again.

She gave him a disapproving look, and he snickered loudly. The atmosphere broke, and that was all the prompting Hermione’s overwrought brain needed. She let forth an ungraceful snort of laughter.

It felt so good to laugh that she shut her eyes and gave in to it completely, delighted to hear that Malfoy was helpless but to join in. They laughed and laughed, trying to hush themselves but only making the giggles worse in the process. It was like she could feel all the worries and fear ebbing out through her skin like mist. She wondered when Malfoy was last able to laugh like this.

“I think you must be going mad after all, Granger,” he said finally, without a trace of malice.

She considered their situation, the panic, the trust, the awkwardness, the hilarity. She had shown him more vulnerability than she’d ever been able to show Harry or Ron. And he had simply provided her with the stabilisation she needed, without having to ask, and without expecting anything in return. He had laughed with her. Had calmed her. And she trusted him.

Maybe she _was_ mad, she thought. Or perhaps she hadn’t realised she needed something.

Something she had now found in none other than Draco Malfoy.

* * *

The south wing was dark – really dark. Even the _lumos_ at the end of Hermione’s wand couldn’t help her see more than a couple of feet ahead of her. At least Malfoy’s hair was wonderfully reflective, she thought with a smirk.

Every few steps, they would each send out a flare from their wands, skittering along the walls and the floorboards ahead of them. They had decided that it was the only way to try and detonate any potential spells that lay in wait without risking themselves getting caught in the crossfire. Plus, there was the bonus of the bright colours making the whole situation feel a lot less scary, which Hermione rather appreciated.

She followed him deeper into the building, marvelling at the destruction around them. The giants had turned the place that she used to know like the back of her hand, into an unrecognisable ruin. There were massive holes in the walls, through which the cold wind whistled with alarming volume. Everywhere she turned her wand, she found the evidence of destroyed statues, doors, suits of armour, paintings, and wall hangings, lying discarded and broken like worn-out playthings. The south wing had three storeys, but in some places, the ceilings above them had fallen through completely, and in others, it was the floors that had been reduced to splinters. Patches of moonlight shone through these unexpected apertures, illuminating the outline of Malfoy’s body ahead of Hermione, his shoulders tense and wand outstretched.

Hermione peered into every classroom as they passed, struggling to make much out except for piles of broken furniture. Scorch marks peppered the walls and floor, and her ears rang with the memory of sparks skidding off stone. The last time she was here, she was fighting for her life. A memory came to her suddenly, and she wondered where the-

 _Oh_. There.

She shuddered as her eyes came to rest on the grotesque body of an acromantula. It was quite obviously dead, and clearly had been for a long time, but the sight of the dusty corpse on its back with its legs arched ominously upwards was enough to make her draw her cloak tighter around herself and hurry onwards. She squeezed her eyes shut and hoped fervently that the attempts to recover all human bodies from the wreckage back in May had been one hundred percent successful. 

A green flare from Malfoy’s wand made an abrupt turn around a corner. They followed after, and Hermione was confronted immediately by a hole in wall that had to be at least ten feet in diameter. She gaped wordlessly at it. It was so huge that ‘hole’ didn’t do it justice. Looking through it felt like Hermione was just looking out on the castle grounds, with segments of brickwork floating in her peripheral vision.

It was no wonder that the Professors have left the south corridor alone, she realised. The repair work needed here alone could take months. It had been far easier simply to rope it off entirely.

It was horrible to consider, but Hermione thought that the extent of the damage here made the South Wing rather a convenient location for their repair attempts.

She stopped dead in front of the gap in the wall for a moment, marvelling at the unobstructed view of the night sky beyond.

“It’s awful,” she muttered.

“It’s war,” said Malfoy simply. He had come back to stand beside her, his brow heavy with an emotion Hermione didn’t quite understand.

What had the last year in Malfoy’s life been like, she wondered. No doubt his understanding of war was worlds away from her own. Two separate viewpoints, two separate pathways, connected now and again in fleeting intersecting moments. A cold floor and the sound of screaming, a blazing heat and a searing fear, and now, a landscape of the Scottish countryside, the surface of the lake a vast black mirror under the unyielding sky.

She looked at him.

There was a sadness in his features, an openness and a vulnerability that shocked her. There was no tension in his frame, no agitation. Just pure, undiluted grief.

“Are you alright?” she ventured.

The grief dropped from his face, to be replaced with a sneer, and he strode off along the corridor with another flare leading the way. “Leave it, Granger.”

She nodded silently to herself. Alright. That would take time, it seemed.

She had time.

Sending another flare skidding past his heels, she couldn’t help but grin at his muffled shout of alarm and headed after him.

* * *

Their first run-in with an unexploded spell was, in a word, anticlimactic.

After several minutes of exploring the South wing without incident, there had come a moment when one of the flares from Malfoy’s wand bounced off an innocuous-looking stretch of wall. There had been a momentary flash of light, and then all at once, a terrible cracking noise rent the air, and a shockwave passed through what felt like the very foundations of the building. The flooring below their feet split, and both Hermione and Malfoy had leapt for the walls in fear.

And then, barely seconds later, it had stopped.

They were fine. The building remained undamaged except for a crack that snaked its way harmlessly across the floorboards.

They looked at one another, both clinging to windowsills on opposite sides of the corridor as if the flimsy pieces of wood could have saved them from plummeting through the floor in the event of a collapse.

And then the corner of Malfoy’s mouth twitched, and they were both laughing until they were breathless.

* * *

A while later, they found themselves in an empty classroom, repairing windows, floorboards, and furniture. Overwhelmed by the scale of the destruction of the South Wing, they had decided to pick one room, scour it thoroughly for spells, and then make a start on its restoration, able to relax and focus without the fear of setting off an invisible explosion.

The classroom was moderately sized, so they were able to work on opposite sides of the room whilst still keeping close enough for reassurance. A small hole in the wall was quickly patched up, shutting out the frigid wind from outside, and then they were able to turn their attention to the furnishings. As they reattached table legs, re-sealed floorboards and rethreaded wall hangings, they started to talk.

Hermione told him exactly what had happened on her visit to the South Corridor the previous week, and he laughed so uproariously at her retelling of McGonagall’s ‘privacy’ scolding that he dropped the table he was levitating onto his foot and was forced to swap laughter for some inventive swear words that Hermione had never heard before.

He told her about his alchemy N.E.W.T. classes, and about the time Padma Patil accidentally spilt ox bile on the back of Slughorn’s velvet smoking jacket, resulting in a stench so vile that the entire corridor had to be evacuated for three days.

She told him about the no-magic-allowed paper aeroplane competition in the Gryffindor common room at the start of term, and how Dean Thomas had managed to win thanks to a stray gust of wind that had sent his origami creation soaring straight down one of Hagrid’s chimneys, pitching the entire cohort into hysterics.

And Malfoy told her about Slytherin game nights: fancy casino themed evenings, with real poker and table craps; and silly ones too, with drinking games, and charades, and something he called _BillyWiggle_ , but which sounded to Hermione like wizard Twister.

They were safe topics, but they were comforting. They didn’t talk about the war, or his parents, or her parents, or the time he watched her writhe in agony on the floor of his childhood home. They talked about fun, and life, and joyous things.

“Alright then,” Hermione said later, as she sealed a cracked tile back into its place in the wall. “You promised me that if I let you come with me tonight, you would tell me why you wanted to do this. So… why?”

He was silent for a long while.

“It’s not some profound, noble reason…” he murmured stiffly, his wand stilling at his side.

Hermione waited.

“So much of my life has been spent being told what to do,” he said eventually, sitting down and leaning his head against the wall. His chin tilted upwards. “It sounds pathetic, but it’s true. There was always some kind of plan I had to follow, or a box I had to fit in. I was never able to do something simply because I wanted to. And I know I had a hand in all of _this_ , all of this destruction, all of the awful things that happened over the last couple of years-”

Hermione made as if to interrupt, but he shook his head fiercely. “I did. No matter how small a part I played, I was there. And now that it’s all over, and I’m free of… of _them_ … Well, it would be so easy to just do nothing. To fade into the background, to get my N.E.W.T.s, to get a tidy job somewhere nice and out of the way. So, I guess I’m doing this because I’m tired of doing nothing. I wanted to get up and do something for _myself_ for a change, regardless of what anyone else would think.”

There was a silence. He looked so vulnerable, so exposed, and yet there was a determination, a certainty in his eyes. Hermione believed him instantly.

“That makes… a lot of sense,” she said. “It’s really kind of you to help me.”

“No it’s not. I’m doing this for entirely selfish reasons,” he protested.

She grinned. “Of course.”

They went back to their work.

“Your turn then,” said Malfoy, long enough later that Hermione had forgotten what they had been talking about.

“Huh?”

“Why are you doing this? Haven’t you got enough on your plate already?” he joked. “What made you want to add something else?”

Her parents. Her home. Her friends. Hermione’s mind whirled through possible answers. God, her parents.

Her eyes prickled with the threat of tears and she realised she wasn’t ready to tell Malfoy about any of it. Not yet.

“I’ll tell you next time,” she offered, then paused. “You, uh, you will come again, for a next time, right?”

Malfoy looked at her then, and the corner of his mouth curved, a dimple appearing in one cheek. “Try and stop me.”

And then she was blushing again and couldn’t seem to concentrate no matter how hard she tried.

* * *

By the time the classroom began to resemble a suitable environment for teaching schoolchildren, Hermione was yawning so hard she kept having to pause mid-sentence.

She mended the last shattered inkwell in the room and looked up, searching for wherever might next need her attention. But she couldn’t find it.

Looking around in wonder, she only half noticed as Malfoy came to stand beside her, surveying their achievement. “We did it,” she whispered.

The room was perfect. Desks and chairs in neat rows, facing a long table stacked neatly with scrolls, inkpots and quills. The blackboard behind was clean and unblemished, the floor polished and tidy, and the walls intact and sturdy.

It looked like the castle they remembered from all those months ago.

“We did it,” Malfoy confirmed.

It was silent, the two of them stood side by side. Hermione thought for a ridiculous, wild moment, that Malfoy would take her hand, but of course he didn’t.

They had instead simply stared in companionable silence for a while, before Hermione was accosted by another violent yawn, realising it was probably time to call it a night. As they made their way out of the South wing, disillusionment charms in place, Hermione realised that she felt the most contented she had felt in a while.

“What should we say if we get caught?” she asked suddenly, the thought occurring to her as they began their walk towards the staircase.

Malfoy’s brow furrowed. “You’re asking me this now?”

“Oh, sorry, let me just give my time-turner a spin and I’ll ask you ten minutes ago, how’s that?” she teased. “I’m just saying. We should have a plan in case we get caught.”

“We won’t,” he said easily, and carried on walking.

“But if we do?” she asked, hurrying to keep up with him. “It’s not like when I did this with Ron; it’s not like we can say we went off for a snog.”

“Merlin, no!” he spluttered vehemently.

“Alright! Christ, I do have feelings,” Hermione teased. “No need to sound _quite_ so repulsed.”

“What, would you rather I say that going for a snog would be an entirely believable excuse, and not at all sound like I’ve _imperioed_ you?”

She laughed. “Alright, you’ve got a point.”

“Do you really think we need an excuse?” Malfoy asked, after a moment. “Surely we’d be punished for being up after curfew regardless of the reason.”

“I don’t know. Maybe if the excuse was good enough then we’d be alright? Maybe we could say that I’m tutoring you in something?” she suggested.

“Not a chance. I’m just as smart as you.” He smirked at her. “Well, nearly.”

She flushed at that, rather pleased. “Alright, what skills could you teach me, then?”

He considered this for a moment. “Occlumency, perhaps? I’m quite good at that.”

“Oh, that’s not a bad idea. Occlumency sessions, to help stop my n-” She broke off suddenly.

He looked at her for a moment, so she set her shoulders and ploughed on, determined not to show any embarrassment. “My nightmares,” she finished. “I think we’ve all had them since the war, haven’t we?”

He didn’t respond.

“Never mind,” she said quickly. “So if you’re teaching me Occlumency, I’ve got to be giving you something in return, right?”

Hermione wasn’t sure if he flushed slightly at this, or it was just the strange lighting in this part of the castle.

“Perhaps I’m helping you _work through some trauma_ ,” she continued drily, smirking.

He looked torn between scowling and laughing. “Shut it.”

“Mm,” said Hermione, a slow smirk spreading across her face. “And tell me, how does that make you feel?”

He snorted, rolling his eyes. “Look, you don’t need to be giving me anything in return. I don’t need a mind-healer. Or any other kind of… do-gooder,” he said.

Hermione was hit with a memory of her conversation with Parvati not that long ago. “Or perhaps a fixer-upper,” she suggested quietly to herself.

“What?”

“Like a, a fixer-upper. You know, someone who’s always out to fix things. Or someone in need of being fixed. I’m not too sure anymore.”

He didn’t seem to know how to respond, opting to watch his feet as they crossed the flagstones.

“Someone told me recently that I was a fixer-upper,” said Hermione, for want of something to say.

Malfoy sniffed. “Well, you do seem to like mending things.”

“By that definition, you’re a fixer-upper too.”

“Huh,” he said, clearly taken aback. “What a pair we make.”

She grinned as they came to a stop in front of the staircase that signified it was time for them to part. Hopping onto the first step, she called down to him.

“We should start a club.”

He didn’t say anything, but Hermione swore she could spot an amused grin on his face before he turned and walked away.

* * *

“Someone didn’t get enough sleep last night,” remarked Ginny, as Hermione stifled another large yawn over the breakfast table the next morning. “You could shoot a quaffle through there.” 

Hermione grinned guiltily. “Yeah, I couldn’t seem to drop off,” she lied. In fact nothing could be further from the truth. The second she had snuck back into her dormitory the night before, she had collapsed into bed and fallen asleep almost immediately.

“Were you doing homework in bed again?” asked Parvati.

“Of course she was,” laughed Ron, clapping a hand on Hermione’s back. “Any moment not reading is a moment wasted, right?”

She smiled patiently but didn’t comment, choosing instead to reach for a glass of pumpkin juice. It was easier for her by far if they all thought she had been up studying, instead of, you know, performing complex reconstructive magic in a derelict battleground with someone that until very recently had been considered an enemy.

She smiled to herself and accidentally made eye contact with that someone at the Slytherin table, a someone with white-blond hair, a sleepy expression, and a secret comradeship in his eyes. Malfoy lifted his eyebrows conspiratorially at her.

Hermione thought of a classroom on the other side of the castle and smiled into her porridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6! And so the entire purpose of this story becomes clear... If you have time, I'd love to hear what you think so far :D  
> Updates from here on out should be on Wednesdays and Saturdays.  
> See you next time!


	7. "A Mutually Beneficial Scenario"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for more moderate alcohol consumption here (are you noticing a pattern?).  
> I listened to 'Turn' by The Wombats a lot while writing this, so I think the overall feel of that song is echoed a little in this chapter. I'd recommend checking it out if you feel so inclined!  
> Enjoy!

Hermione’s very first letter from Draco Malfoy arrived several days later, as she was sat in her dormitory, scratching Crookshanks behind the ears, nursing a hot chocolate and wondering whether she had time for one more chapter of her book before bed.

It was one of the school owls that brought it to her, squeezing in through the window and landing on the end of her bed to drop the message onto her foot, eyeing Crookshanks warily. The message was written on a tiny scrap of paper, the handwriting fine and delicate.

‘ _Up for another club meeting_? _D.M.'_

It was almost ridiculous how fast the excitement shot through her body. Too fast to question. She sat bolt upright in delight, Crookshanks mewling angrily and the school owl hooting in concern as the duvet shifted.

‘ _When were you thinking_?’ Hermione scrawled back, pausing to pet the owl’s worried head as Crookshanks looked on in jealousy. Letter clamped in its beak, it left with her a parting nip, and Hermione sat staring after it, her heart thudding too loudly in the quiet dormitory.

The owl didn’t take long to return with a reply.

‘ _How about in 15 minutes time?’_

The eagerness that flushed through her veins left very little room for hesitation or doubt. And she was up and out of bed, her dressing gown traded for robes, in no time at all.

* * *

Ten minutes later, she landed beyond the chasm of what was once the South corridor.

Malfoy was already there, his hair a bright silver in the moonlight.

“Evening, Granger.”

“Evening, Malfoy.”

“On time tonight, I see.”

“I'm early, actually.”

“Oh, I must have missed that when I arrived five minutes ago.”

“Perhaps you ought to give more warning next time, then.”

“And risk losing something I can tease you about? Where would be the fun in that?”

“Ha ha,” she said drily, sticking her tongue out at him.

He grinned, and something fluttered in Hermione’s belly. With a roll of her eyes and a flourish of her wand, she sent the first flare of the evening skittering up the corridor ahead of them and strode off after it. Malfoy’s footsteps sounded behind her.

Their journey down the corridor revealed several unidentifiable spells, a couple of _bombardas_ and, unusually, some kind of slicing hex that Hermione didn’t recognise, but was awfully glad she managed to set off while she was still ten metres away.

They picked another classroom and set to just as they had before, gathering up the debris, mending what they could, and vanishing the rest.

“What’s your favourite subject?” Hermione asked idly, as she sifted through a pile of broken wood on the floor.

“Er, potions,” replied Malfoy from the other side of the classroom. “I would say alchemy, but that’s just one branch that I like, really.”

“Not muggle studies?” she teased. He spluttered for a moment by way of response, and she laughed. “I’m joking, I’m joking. Don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t worried,” he said defensively, and waved his wand a little too violently, causing the tapestry he was mending to leap off the table.

Hermione grinned down at her wand.

“Why are you taking muggle studies, anyway?” he asked her after a while, as he tried to force the tapestry’s threads back into submission. “Is it just an easy one to up your N.E.W.T. count?”

“Well, yeah, I guess…” she answered hesitantly. “But- never mind.” She caught herself rapidly.

“Granger,” said Malfoy, casting aside the still-torn tapestry in annoyance and stalking across the room towards her. “Come on. We’re past this.”

She looked up at him in surprise. “W-we are?”

“Yeah. Come on,” he said, his mouth pulling into a smirk. “We talked about my so-called ‘trauma’ last week. It’s your turn.”

“I don’t have trauma-”

“Oh, spare me, you lived in a tent with Potter and the Weasel for several months, I can’t possibly believe you weren’t traumatised by that experience.”

“Hey, nothing untoward went on in that tent!”

He quirked his eyebrows at that. Then, with a mildly disgusted look at the dusty floor, gingerly lowered himself to sit cross-legged next to her. He eyed her silently, then raised his wand and began helping her sort the pile of wood into appropriate piles. “Go on. Why are you doing muggle studies?”

Hermione prodded the pile of timber with her wand. “You’ll judge me. It’s a silly reason.”

He shrugged but said nothing more as he levitated a chunk of wood off of the pile and over to where it belonged.

“Have you, er, have you heard about my parents?” she asked quietly.

“Well, I assumed you had them.”

She eyed him disapprovingly, even as he smirked back at her in defiance. “I don’t, not anymore.”

He froze, guilt spreading over his face. “Oh. Er.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

“No, no, they’re still alive,” she said quickly. “They, just, er… don’t know about me.”

“They don’t know you exist?”

Hermione almost laughed, in a small, sad way. “No, not exactly. Before the war, I, er… I obliviated them.”

Malfoy dropped a block of wood and it crashed down on his knee, eliciting a choked cry of pain that splintered the heavy atmosphere.

“I knew that when I went missing last year, the first place they’d look for information was with my parents. So I er, I modified their memories. About me, about their lives, about their future plans… And now they’re in Australia,” said Hermione, looking at the floor.

Malfoy was gazing at her in disbelief. “You’re… you’re fucking scary sometimes, Granger.”

She laughed then, a high pitched, wheezy laugh that sounded only a breath away from a sob. “What with all the services, and the reparations, and all of that after the battle, I didn’t have enough time to find them again. Maybe one day. I…” She drummed her fingers absently on her ankle, pursing her lips in an attempt to control her emotions. “I hope I can undo what I’ve done to them. And in the meantime, doing muggle studies… it makes me feel closer to them. I know that’s stupid.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” he said quietly.

She looked at him, a wordless gratitude on her lips, but he had already refocused on the task at hand.

It was a while before either spoke.

“I’m sorry, about your parents,” said Malfoy eventually. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

She smiled sadly. “It was the right thing to do. And I-” she broke off again, biting her lip. “For what it’s worth, Malfoy, I’m sorry about yours, too.”

Everyone knew that Lucius was in Azkaban now, maybe forever. Very little was known about what Narcissa had been doing since she was pardoned by the Wizengamot, but Hermione doubted she was having the time of her life.

Malfoy shifted uncomfortably for a moment. Then, with what looked like a great deal of emotional effort, he lifted his gaze to hers and smiled softly. “Thank you,” he said.

Their eyes met, at once both too intense and too vulnerable, and it seemed to take Hermione more effort than normal to drag her attention back to the task at hand.

* * *

“No, no, absolutely not,” insisted Harry, biting decisively into a croissant. “I’m not going to a Slug Club meeting ever again.”

“Harry, come on, please-” Hermione tried.

“I’m sorry Hermione,” he said apologetically. “I am. But you know he’ll only make us rehash everything that happened last year. It was hard enough the first time.”

“I know, but he asked me personally, I can’t say no-”

“You’ll be alright,” said Ron. “You can distract him by asking him potions questions. You’re smart like that.”

Hermione sighed in frustration. It was hopeless. The Slug Club meeting was two days away, and it looked like she was going to be on her own. If it were up to her, she wouldn’t go at all, but she felt bad ignoring Slughorn’s personal request for her attendance, as off-the-cuff as it may have been. It was alright for Ron and Harry; their ribbon-wrapped scrolls had gone straight into the common room fireplace without the slightest hesitation. Hermione couldn’t ignore a verbal invitation so easily.

“Cheer up, Herm,” said Ron, devouring a forkful of baked beans. “There’ll be other people there.”

“Oh, goody, I do hope they’re as _excellent_ conversationalists as _McLaggen_ -”

“I’ve heard a _confundus_ charm works wonders on those types,” said Harry under his breath, a wry smile on his face. Ron looked up in confusion, and Hermione quickly changed the subject.

* * *

As a result, that Friday night, even though Hermione wanted nothing more than to stay in the common room and pretend to read while watching the exploding snap tournament that was kicking off, she forced herself to stay true to her word and attend the Slug Club meeting. Alone.

At the very least, she supposed, there would be food.

It was a more formal occasion than normal, so she had pulled her hair back into a low bun, curls spilling out on all sides no matter how she tried to control them, and slipped on a dark green dress that she had almost forgotten she had. Her old denim jacket thrown over the top helped it feel just that little bit more _her_.

When she could put it off no longer, she hurried down the staircase to the dungeons, teeth beginning to chatter. As she rounded a corner, someone appeared out of the shadows very suddenly, and she leapt back with a small shriek.

“Wha- Malfoy?!”

His face came fully into view, having the decency to at least look a little embarrassed. Her gaze lowered, taking in the sight of him in a formal blazer and tie.

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s 6:30 on a Friday evening in the dungeons, Granger, I have every right to be here.”

She blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”

And then he smirked. “But since you’re asking, I’m here to be your plus one.”

She blinked at him again. “…I’m sorry, what?”

“I heard you earlier in the week, asking Potter and Weasley to come with you. I’ve always wanted to go to one of these meetings. So I thought I’d be your plus one for the evening,” he said disinterestedly, as if this was all just about as exciting as a piece of lint on his sleeve.

There was a silence. “Do you realise how utterly _bizarre_ that is?!” Hermione said eventually, gaping at him. “Overhearing snatches of a conversation and deciding that rather than ask me about it in person, you’d just turn up out of the blue in a suit waiting to escort me?”

He shrugged. “It’s a mutually beneficial scenario.”

“Mutually bene- you’re crazy. You’re actually crazy,” she laughed, striding off along the corridor.

He easily fell into step with her, appearing more amused than insulted. “It’s not that crazy. The whole school knows I came to your birthday party by now.”

“That was different. _You_ weren’t a plus one.”

“Well, that’s true. But I still disagree. It’s not that different.”

She huffed. “I don’t need a plus one.”

He smirked then. “But _I_ need someone to get me in.”

She huffed even louder, but Malfoy could tell her resolve was weakening. He kept pace with her, long legs easily matching her strides.

“If you’re my plus one, you’ve got to be nice to me,” she relented.

He quirked his eyebrows in mock innocence. “When am I not?”

“And to everyone else.”

“Ah, now that might be tough.”

She rounded on him and he laughed. “Easy, easy. I’m on my best behaviour this year, remember? Your reputation isn’t going to be sullied by any poor manners of mine. I _was_ raised impeccably, after all.” He shrugged his tie further up into his collar.

And Hermione gave him one last glare of exasperation before they entered the first Slug Club meeting of the year.

* * *

“Good evening, good evening! Miss Granger! What a delight to see you here on such a celebratory occasion! What a delight,” boomed Slughorn. He beamed at Hermione but performed a dramatic double-take when his eyes alighted on Malfoy. “And Mister Malfoy too! What a surprise!”

“He’s my plus one,” mumbled Hermione, as he stepped out to greet the professor with an ease unsuited to his nigh-gatecrasher status. She glared daggers at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Good evening, Sir,” Malfoy said politely, deftly ignoring her.

“Jolly good,” rumbled Slughorn, with the air of someone who had more important people to meet. He turned back to Hermione. “Ought I to take this to mean that Misters Potter and Weasley are indisposed?” 

Malfoy made a face behind his head of house’s shoulder. “What am I, chopped liver?” he mouthed.

“I’m sorry sir, they couldn’t make it,” Hermione said, through gritted teeth.

“Oh, very busy, I’m sure, those two…” agreed Slughorn. “I did know they’d do great things, of course I did, right from that very first potions class, such talent I’d simply never-”

Malfoy mimed yawning and stole a glass of mead from the nearest table. Hermione watched him through narrowed eyes.

“…simply must tell me all the sorry details about your adventure last year!” Slughorn was saying. “Tell me, whose idea was it that the dragon-?”

“This is excellent mead, professor,” said Malfoy loudly, from behind him. He drained his glass. “How would one go about sneaking it past a certain school caretaker?”

Hermione muttered a soft excuse to Slughorn and steered the Slytherin away.

“You,” she hissed to Malfoy, “are going to get us kicked out. You weren’t even _invited_ , you can’t just act like you’re at some kind of _boys’ club_ -”

“Live a little, Granger,” he smirked. “It’s a party. Besides, I thought you hated these things. Wouldn’t getting kicked out be a good thing?”

She huffed. “I don’t… _hate_ them. It’s just that Slughorn’s been baiting me for weeks to tell him everything about last year. I just… It’s really not what I want to discuss right now. My heart rate doubles every time he comes near me.”

“Hm, sounds rather serious,” Malfoy said. He considered her for a moment. “Would you like my expert medical opinion?”

She quirked an eyebrow despairingly. “Alright. What’s my diagnosis?”

“Sobriety.”

She tried not to laugh. “In that case, can I get a prescription…?”

He turned around decisively and grabbed another glass of mead, presenting it to her with a flourish. “Of course.”

“You’re a terrible influence,” she said wryly, taking a hesitant sip.

“Well, I’ve spent my whole life being influenced terribly,” he said. “Can you blame me?”

Hermione grinned. “Fine. You keep finding the alcohol, and I’ll stop complaining.”

He flashed a perfect grin. “Deal.”

* * *

The remainder of the night had gone wonderfully. Hermione and Malfoy had successfully made their way through what she imagined must be nearly an entire bottle of mead; and had managed to avoid their Potions professor every time he attempted to make a beeline towards them. They had chatted politely to any other attendees they had come across, but had mostly kept to themselves, talking and drinking and laughing.

It was astonishing how well the conversation flowed, even with no other pursuits to distract them as it would in the south corridor. They were surprisingly similar in a lot of ways, Hermione thought.

By her fifth glass, she and Malfoy were sat at a table, excitedly helping themselves to the rather decadent cheese platter before them, but her heart sank when she realised that Slughorn was making his way over to them once more, wine glass clutched in one hand, cheeks red and smile wide.

“Miss Granger, at last!” he cried.

Hermine choked down a mouthful of Wensleydale, realising that it was too late to make an escape. “Good evening, Professor,” she croaked, rather unenthusiastically. Of course it was too much to hope that she could avoid him all night.

Slughorn pulled out a chair and sank down into it with delight. “So tell me, Miss Granger, was it true you carried a purse with an undetectable extension charm on it all year? Most rebellious of you!”

“Well, I-” she started.

“I never did understand quite why those charms are subject to ministry regulations,” piped up Malfoy, sliding his glass back onto the table. “Something about the Statute of Secrecy, I hear. Do you know, Professor?”

Slughorn looked a little thrown off. “The Statute, well, yes, yes. A most difficult charm, disastrous consequences if performed incorrectly, of course. But, Miss Granger, undoubtedly that was never a worry for a witch of your calibre… Why, the things I’ve heard! Tell me, was it true that you created a Polyjuice potion containing the hair of Ms Bellatr-”

“Oh, Professor, I’ve been meaning to ask!” said Malfoy, again pulling the professor’s attention back to himself. “I was unfortunately rather ill when you went over Polyjuice theory the other week, I was hoping you might be able to tell me exactly why it’s of such importance that the fluxweed is picked at the full moon?”

Again, and again, it happened. Each time Slughorn attempted to shoehorn in a question to Hermione, Malfoy would interrupt it with some other conversation topic. As she realised what was happening, the small polite smile on her face grew and grew, and Slughorn became more and more disgruntled.

Eventually, when it became clear that he wasn’t going to get anywhere, Slughorn uttered some excuse about needing a refill of his half-full wine glass and left them to it.

Hermione turned her gaze to Malfoy with an expression of unbridled joy. “You,” she declared, “are never leaving my side ever again. Can I hire you? That was _brilliant_!”

He rolled his eyes at her and took a sip of his drink, the shadow of a blush on his cheeks. “Don’t mention it.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, beaming, and he shrugged as if embarrassed.

“Ah, you mentioned it,” he mumbled.

She put her elbows on the table and leaned closer. His eyes flitted to the strap of her dress, and she wondered for a moment if there was an unravelling thread or something else similar there.

“Why did you come tonight, Malfoy?” she asked softly.

He tore his eyes away and looked down into his glass. “Honestly?”

She nodded.

“I thought Potter and Weasley were being a right pair of gits for refusing to come tonight,” he admitted. “I thought you deserved to have a friend here with you.”

“Is that what we are? Friends?” Hermione asked, before she could help herself.

He didn’t seem brave enough to answer, but the guilty smile at the corner of his mouth told her everything she needed to know.

* * *

Slowly but surely, over the rest of the term, the tentative friendship that had begun to blossom between the two of them amongst the midnight corridors and classrooms of the south wing began to extend to their daytime interactions.

He had taken to sitting at the desk immediately behind her in Muggle Studies, which seemed to be the ideal location for him to tease her. It wasn’t in his old, malicious way, but instead involved earmarking passages from reconstruction textbooks and sending them floating over to her desk for her to peruse, bragging good-naturedly about his good essay grades, and asking her the odd question about muggle life and smirking about the response. It was an odd mix of annoying and charming, but it made things so very much more exciting, and Hermione found herself looking forward to the class specifically because of him.

In the library, what was once ‘her’ table had become ‘theirs’. It wasn’t unusual for Hermione to walk in with Ron and Harry to see Malfoy sat there, an event that would invariably set Ron off on a rant about Slytherins bagging the best spots. And invariably, once the trio had found seats elsewhere, Hermione would trade a conspiratorial smile with Malfoy across the room before starting her work.

It wasn’t a secret, exactly. Hermione tried not to think of it as hiding something from her friends, but instead as an exercise in omission. They had no need to know about something that would only confuse and incense them, would only make them worry about her.

There was something nice about it being… well, just for her and Malfoy.

She relished the conversations they had, as they pored over broken rubble and detonated charms and curses and everything in between. Malfoy was smart, smart enough not just to keep up with, but actually to match her in every discussion. And, to her surprise, he was also actually rather funny.

Mostly their conversations concerned light-hearted topics, cheerful things that took them well beyond the walls of the castle and all the damage within. But sometimes they talked about things that Hermione had struggled to discuss even with Ron and Harry. 

They talked about family. About how desperately Hermione wanted to hug her mother just once more. About how Malfoy didn’t ever want to visit his father in Azkaban.

They talked about death. Vincent Crabbe, Lavender Brown, Colin Creevey. The things that Hermione saw repeated on her eyelids at night.

And they talked about life, too. About friends, and alcohol, and forgiveness.

Malfoy was sometimes abrasive, and often defensive, but Hermione learned to find joy in the small cracks she was able to open, the times she could surprise him, could challenge him. It wasn’t always easy. Some nights she would push too far, and Malfoy would clam up, but it was always over, always forgiven by the next adventure.

And slowly, little by little, they learnt one another.

“Do you ever wish Goyle and Pansy and the others had come back to Hogwarts?” Hermione asked him one day, as she stood channelling mortar from her wand into a crack in the brickwork of an arithmancy classroom.

Malfoy was busy on the other side of the room, repairing a marble balustrade. “I suppose... yes," he said, slowly. "But then again, I know why they didn’t, and I wouldn’t want them to have to put up with… what I do.”

Hermione was alert in an instant, her wand lowered. “What do you have to put up with?” she asked sharply.

He inhaled as if he had said too much. “It’s nothing Granger, don’t worry yourself-”

“Tell me.” It was a tone that Hermione usually reserved for telling off troublemaking second years, but it tended to do the trick for men of all ages.

He sighed audibly. “Just, the odd bit of name-calling and gossiping, it’s unimportant. I’m just, rather used to it. And Pansy, Blaise, Theo, Greg… they’re not. It wouldn’t be so easy for them to ignore.”

“People say cruel things about you?” asked Hermione, her mind racing. How could this still be going on, especially after the trials over the summer? “Who?

Malfoy laughed bitterly, heaving another chunk of marble into its rightful place. “Who doesn’t? You should know, Granger, your boyfriend’s one of the worst.” Hot embarrassment flooded into her stomach. “Even the other Slytherins don’t have too many kind words for me these days,” he continued.

“Is that why you have your own dormitory?” she asked quietly.

He stilled. “Maybe,” he said eventually, after a pregnant pause. “I don’t know for sure, it was Slughorn’s decision… but well… I doubt it was a reward for good behaviour.”

Hermione hoped that the fact he was making jokes again meant that it wasn’t too bad.

“You know, if it’s really horrible, I can try and speak to someone about it?” she suggested gently.

“You don’t need to do that,” he said quickly, going back to his work. “Just… just consider it retribution for all the names I’ve called you over the years.”

“You didn’t know any better,” she murmured, and Malfoy suddenly stopped what he was doing and was standing next to her in a flash.

“Yes I did,” he said emphatically, his fists clenched. “I was young, and stupid, but I knew what I was doing. I was _awful_ to you.”

She stared him down, refusing to look away. “Okay, yes, you were. But you regret it, don’t you? It’s obvious that you do.”

He shrugged, something like embarrassment crowding onto his features. “Yeah, well.”

“Malfoy,” she said, and he looked back at her, a blush clear on his cheeks. “I forgave you for it – all of it – a very long time ago.”

His eyebrows creased in the middles, and he looked away very suddenly. If she didn’t know that Malfoy would be furious with her for suggesting it, she would have said he was on the verge of tears.

After a while, with no response, Hermione returned to the wall, wand at the ready. She busied herself with digging into the crumbling stone to find its weaknesses, filling each crack with mortar, scraping down the excess. She was just about to start on the very last one when she realised that Malfoy was stood beside her again.

“Granger?” he said quietly. “Could I call you another name?”

Unsure what to expect, Hermione looked at him, brow furrowed. “What name?”

And then he bit his lip in a totally unexpected gesture of bashfulness. “Well, I was just thinking… perhaps I could call you _Hermione_.”

* * *

The moment her name left his lips, Hermione froze in surprise. It was just about the last thing she would ever have expected him to say, and the sound his voice made around the word sounded positively foreign. Still… she thought she liked it. Especially with the way he looked at once both so nervous, and so desperate to hide it.

She burst into giggles.

He frowned, clearly having expected this conversation to have gone a little differently. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just… bizarre,” she tailed off, grinning. “You’re so dramatic. You… you caught me by surprise.”

He was still looking at her as if she’d just swallowed her wand, and it only made her want to laugh more. “Sorry,” she tried again. “Sorry. I won’t laugh every time, I promise. Yes. You can call me Hermione if you like.”

As if he’d suddenly made up his mind about something, Malfoy suddenly turned to the crack in the wall she had previously been working on. Lifting his wand and directing it right into the fissure, Hermione watched as he carefully began to carve tiny letters into the mortar.

_F._

_U._

_C._

“-Real mature, Malfoy-”

“I thought you of all people would recognise an acronym when you see one,” he retorted. “Look. Fixer… Upper… Club. That’s us.”

“You came up with a… a team name?” asked Hermione, in joyous disbelief, a slow smile spreading across her face.

“You coined it the first night, remember? You said ‘we should start a club’. Because Hogwarts is a fixer-upper. And you and I are fixer-uppers, just in a different sense,” he said defensively. “Aren’t we?”

“Is it a different sense? All I hear from you is that you have all this trauma for me to fix up,” she teased.

“You know that’s a joke, right? You do know what one of those is?”

“I’m not sure. Can you recommend me a book on the subject?” she said, all innocence.

“Yeah, it’s called ‘ _fuck right off, I’m trying to do a nice thing’_ ,” he retorted instantly.

And then all Hermione could do was laugh until he joined in.

It felt all of a sudden as if they were too far away from one another. And before she could think twice, she had let herself sway towards him as they laughed, her shoulder resting gently against his side.

It was only the barest of touches, but the warm sturdiness of him against her was somehow right, somehow natural, and yet Hermione acknowledged a tiny skip in her heartbeat, a steady crescendo.

And when the natural movement of her laughter brought her away from him again, she missed it. The contact.

“I like that,” she said quietly, once the amusement had faded. “A record to say that we did it together. Not just Hermione or Ma- er, Draco, but both of us. The F.U.C.”

He looked at her then, and there was something wide and new in his eyes. He smiled slowly, then shook his head and looked away.

“Both of us,” he murmured.

They were finished with the room not long after that, but Hermione found herself wishing that it could have taken longer.

* * *

One evening, Hermione was sat in her dorm with the other girls, playing a game with someone’s deck of combusto-cards. The gameplay was punctuated every now and again by the continued debate about the true name of the game - Ginny was certain that it was called Minister, but Hermione and Parvati both knew it as President. Either way, the game had them all chuckling as they raced to get rid of their cards as quickly as they could before they began to smoke. The unlucky player with the most cards at the end of each round would end up with a handful of ash and usually burnt fingertips to boot – as well as having to suffer the defamation of being termed the ‘ _scum’_ (or ‘ _mud’_ , as Ginny called it) for the next round.

It was altogether rather different to the card games Hermione had used to play at home with her parents, considering the added threat of fire damage, but as she sat leaning against the foot of her bed, Crookshanks curled into the warmth of her lap, she thought that perhaps she liked it just as well.

A yawn overcame her all of a sudden, and she lifted a hand to stifle it.

“Tired again?” remarked Ginny, and Hermione smiled guiltily.

Parvati winked as she passed her a card. “Someone needs to stop sneaking out late at night.”

Oh, crap. She paused, expecting to face beratement, interrogation, or at least disappointment, but both girls just sat grinning at her.

“Huh?” she tried.

“Sneaking out to meet Ron,” clarified Parvati, her eyebrows waggling. “We all know you’re doing it. You’re not exactly subtle.”

A flush crept over Hermione’s cheeks, stealing all the way up into her hairline. “Uh, something like that,” she laughed softly, eager to cling to the convenient lie. Her cards began to smoke gently. Oh dear. She didn’t think she was going to be able to win this round.

“I think you’ll find it’s exactly like that,” teased Ginny, passing her another smoking card. “Honestly, up until the early hours several nights of the week… If my brother fails his N.E.W.T.s I hope you know it’ll be all thanks to you!”

Hermione looked offended. “If your brother passes his N.E.W.T.s, it’ll be all thanks to me too!”

And Ginny laughed.

“Anyway, you don’t need to hide the fact that you’re sneaking out after curfew anymore. We know. Nothing gets past us,” said Parvati.

“Yeah,” said Ginny, passing Hermione yet more cards. “You can’t lie to us.”

“Scum!” shrieked Parvati as she tossed the last of her cards to Hermione, who jumped so hard that the flaming deck leapt out of her grip and set fire to the carpet.

Amongst squeals of excitement and panic, and a panicked yowl from Crookshanks, the flames were extinguished, and Hermione was let sitting in soggy pyjamas, wondering whether it was a blessing or a curse that Parvati and Ginny were so sure and yet so wrong about her frequent night-time whereabouts.

* * *

The next day was unexpectedly warm for the end of October, and Hermione woke feeling as if the autumn sun had bleached a warmth and a lightness into her bones overnight. She had breezed around the castle all day, awake and engaged in every class, and was determined to carry her productive streak on into her free period at the end of the day, so she made her way, as usual, to the library.

As had become the norm at this time every week, Malfoy was already sat working at their table.

“Morning,” she greeted, making her way over.

He looked up and grinned. “Hermione.”

She started. “Hermione?!”

“No, you’re Hermione,” he said, smirking. “I’m Draco.”

She rolled her eyes and slid into a chair opposite him as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And in a way, it was. “You caught me by surprise, _Draco_. I didn’t expect to hear you calling me that.”

“I did ask,” he said, flicking noisily through the textbook in front of him.

She snatched the book away with a playful grin. “I know. Don’t be facetious.”

“Ooh, big word,” he said, holding up his hands and waggling his fingers. “I’m so _intimidated_ by your _intellect_.”

“Bet you can’t say that five times fast,” she teased. He wrinkled his nose by way of response and she laughed, returning his textbook and digging a roll of parchment out of her bag.

It was incredible, Hermione reflected, how quickly they had become comfortable around one another. His brain seemed to work the same way hers did, which made for some rather fast-paced and amusing conversations. He admired her intelligence but wasn’t threatened by it. He challenged her, rather than blindly accepting everything she said.

It was fun, it was interesting, and above all, it was _easy_. Which was something she didn’t think was possible when it came to him. And yet here they were.

After a while of silent working, each of them buried in their respective essays, Hermione heard him snigger softly to himself.

She looked up at him. “What’s so funny?”

“This,” he answered, turning his textbook around to show her. “Did you know that there was a wizard named Clarence Guttlewing the third who tried to establish a sphinx breeding program in his orangerie in 1919?”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. “He what?”

“My thoughts exactly,” he smirked. “The sphinxes didn’t take too kindly to it, as I’m sure you can imagine. He’s listed here as an example of an ‘unusual death’.”

Hermione giggled. “What kind of homework is this!? Can I see?” she asked, scooting her chair over to peer at the page.

“I was looking for the name of the chocolate frog card wizard who ate Venomous Tentacula. I was going to discuss it in my Herbology essay…”

“Oh, well you won’t get very far here, he actually survived that, if I remember correctly,” said Hermione, scouting down the page. “Wait, someone died from tripping over and landing on a turnip? How on Earth…”

He stifled a laugh. “Must have been a rather solid turnip. Here, apparently this man was making love to his girlfriend when his-”

“Hey, there’s a Draco here!” Hermione almost squealed, spotting the name at the top of the page.

Her table-mate scowled and leaned forward to squint at the entry. “A what?”

“Draco of Athens, 620BC,” Hermione read. “Reportedly smothered under the weight of the gifts that an appreciative audience showered upon him at a theatre on the island of Aegina!”

The 20th century Draco sniffed disapprovingly. “Ridiculous.”

Hermione looked up at him and bit her lip. There was a short pause, and then they were both suddenly beside themselves with laughter.

Hermione wasn’t surprised when a shadow fell over the table, but when she looked up at the newcomer, still snorting, it wasn’t the reproachful Madam Pince that she had expected to interrupt them, but none other than Ron Weasley.

His facial expression had gone far beyond confused, sitting somewhere squarely between shell-shocked and horrified.

“Hermione?” he asked.

“Ron!” Hermione spluttered, hiccoughing with the effort of stifling her giggles. “H-how are you?”

“Uh, good,” he said awkwardly, his eyes still wide with shock, flicking back and forth between her and Draco. “Wh…what are you doing?”

“Oh! We were er, looking through this textbook here, it’s a list of, er, unusual deaths. Like, oh, this muggle died from eating a scorching hot samosa at a dinner party in 1997-”

“A bit morbid, isn’t it?” Ron asked, frowning.

She deflated. “Okay, er, maybe not the best example, er…”

“I was wondering if you wanted to walk to dinner together?” he asked. He seemed to have settled for refusing to look at Draco whatsoever.

“Uh, sure,” Hermione answered, feeling as if her brain was lagging several seconds behind real time. “Just, er, give me a moment-”

She stood as if still in slow motion and began to pack her things away, watched on one side by a pink-cheeked Ron, and on the other by a blank-faced Draco.

“Good luck with the essay,” she said quietly to the latter, and he gave her a quick, impassive nod, before she turned back to Ron, who seemed to be on the brink of bursting something out.

“Shall we?” she asked, and seemingly incapable of speech, he bobbed his head and set off at once out of the library.

Hermione glanced back once as she followed him.

* * *

Five metres down the corridor, Ron couldn’t keep it contained any longer.

“Malfoy?!” he cried in disbelief, stopping abruptly and turning to face her. “So, what, are you friends or something now?”

She frowned, torn between guilt and righteousness. “Well, yeah, something like that.”

“Merlin, Hermione, when you invited him to your party I thought you were just feeling sorry for him! Why didn’t you tell me about…this?!”

“I didn’t think there was a ‘this’,” she answered, truthfully. “We just study together, sometimes.” Less truthful.

“Do you know how _weird_ that is?” Ron asked despairingly, and Hermione almost laughed.

“Of course I know how weird it is, it’s Malfoy! But he’s been kind to me this year, and I believe in giving people the benefit of the doubt.”

Ron looked at her as if she’d suddenly confessed her undying love for Xenophilius Lovegood, but he didn’t seem to have any coherent thoughts to vocalise, so he settled instead for turning smartly on his heel and striding towards the great hall like a wizard possessed.

Once at the Gryffindor table, he wasted no time in telling everyone else, making Hermione feel absurdly like a naughty toddler caught with her hand in the biscuit tin.

This feeling was thankfully rather rapidly assuaged when the occupants of the table were revealed to care very little about this revelation.

“What?” asked Harry unconcernedly through a mouthful of mashed potato.

“I’m telling you, Hermione’s friends with Malfoy,” Ron repeated, as if he still couldn’t believe it himself. “They were laughing at something in a textbook in the library. Laughing?! Together?!”

“I’m right here,” said Hermione, stung.

Harry gulped down his mouthful. “You were laughing with Malfoy? At a textbook?”

She blushed. “It was a funny textbook.”

Ginny smirked. “Well, out of all of us, it makes sense that Malfoy’s the only one who could find a textbook as entertaining as you.”

Hermione grinned, recognising this as acceptance, and not as a jibe.

“But it’s _Malfoy_?!” spluttered Ron. “Are we even talking about the same person?”

Hermione laid a gently hand over his wrist. “It’s okay Ron. Honestly. I know it takes some getting used to, but he’s alright. Really.”

Ron didn’t protest further, but began helping himself to food, grumbling under his breath. Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding.

“Have you found out yet why he looked so ill at the start of term?” Ginny asked her. “He’s been looking better lately, but he really did look awful for a while, didn’t he?”

“Honestly, I think he was just tired. And lonely,” Hermione replied. “And I think he’s sick of the gossip that follows him everywhere.”

Harry nodded ruefully. “I know that feeling.”

“You know,” said Hermione, as she leant forward to help herself to some sausages. “Underneath it all, I think really he’s no different to us.”

Ron froze next to her, and Hermione realised that she had said the wrong thing.

“No different?” he said slowly, his anger building. “Hermione, he was a _fucking_ Death Eater!”

The table went deathly silent as his voice rose to a shout. A dollop of soup slipped from Neville’s spoon and splattered onto Seamus’ hand, who snatched it away with a muffled swear word.

Ron took a short, heavy breath, setting his jaw in a way that betrayed how close he was to tears. “If it wasn’t for him, then maybe I’d still have my brother! You wouldn’t understand,” he hissed across the table at Hermione. “ _You_ didn’t lose anyone.”

An aching, bruised anger flared in Hermione’s chest.

Ron scrambled to his feet and fled the hall as quickly as he possibly could. With an apologetic look at the table, Harry sped after him.

The remaining shell-shocked occupants of the table exchanged glances, but Hermione refused to look anywhere except directly down at her plate. She was unbelievably hurt, and indescribably furious with him for suggesting that he was the only one who had been hurt by the war. As if he didn’t give a damn about her parents, or her home, or any of the many people Hermione had come to see as family that had lost their lives.

She only realised she was clutching her cutlery hard enough to hurt when Ginny leant over and folded her hand in her palm. “It’s okay. He’ll come round,” she promised.

But Hermione wasn’t sure she believed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for joining me in another chapter! (It's the longest one yet!)  
> Next one coming Wednesday <3


	8. "Far Too Laid-Back About Quidditch"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy update day!  
> TW: This chapter contains a short non-explicit scene of low-level sexual content between Hermione and Ron. It is 100% consensual, but Hermione experiences some confusion and regret afterward, which could potentially be triggering for some readers. If you wish to avoid it, please skip the scene that takes place after Hermione sees George until the next page break. Read with care <3

Hermione stayed at the dinner table well past the time that most people had left for bed, alternating between making idle conversation with the friends that attempted it, and reading from the latest book she had taken out of the library, pretending she was thinking about anything other than Ron. She didn’t know if she was ready to face him or Harry in the common room. She knew she was procrastinating, but... she couldn't bring herself to stop.

Even though it wasn’t exactly as though she had been looking for him, she couldn’t help but notice that Draco didn’t appear for dinner all evening.

And so when she finally decided to call it a night, she found herself loading a plate with a Cornish pasty and a few sandwiches, selecting the first slice of flapjack she could find that didn’t contain raisins, and heading to the owlery to send a letter.

‘ _Club meeting tonight_?’ she wrote, and watched the owl swoop away with half a stolen sandwich in its beak. Served her right for always using the school owls, she thought.

The response was quicker than she had expected. ‘ _I’m already waiting’_ , it read, and laughing with exasperation, she fed the owl the other half of the sandwich and set off for the South corridor.

It was the first time they had met up before curfew, and Hermione found herself dodging so many passers-by that it was almost unbelievable that no one stopped to ask her where she was going with a plate of food and a textbook on wood panelling.

She cast a hasty disillusionment charm before rounding the corner and making her way across the broken down corridor. As promised, Draco was already stood in the threshold of a new classroom, firing off flares into the dark.

“I noticed you weren’t at dinner,” she said as she neared, holding the plate out like a sacrificial offering. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a variety.”

He froze mid-cast, staring disbelievingly at her. “You brought me dinner?”

“That’s what I said,” she grinned, proffering the plate again. “Go on, eat. You wandwork will be shoddy if you’re hypoglycaemic.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t press the matter further, and Hermione grinned broadly as he inspected the slice of flapjack (for raisins, she imagined), and, once satisfied, took an eager bite.

It was only after he had demolished everything on plate with such abandon that Hermione had had to take over the flare-casting, that he seemed to remember himself.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly. “Apparently I was hungrier than I thought.”

“You’ve, er, got some herbs or something, in your teeth,” Hermione said, trying not to grin.

He cleared his throat, blushed hotly, and turned away to fix it.

“Why didn’t you come down for dinner today?” she asked eventually, looking away from him and sending a flare spiralling up to the ceiling

“I knew your weasel friend would spend the whole meal glaring daggers at me,” he answered. “I prefer not to have gingers staring at me while I eat. It’s rather off-putting.”

Hermione laughed before she could feel bad about doing so. “Well, you wouldn’t have had to put up with it for long. He stormed out rather sharpish when I refused to take his side.” She stowed her wand away – as far as she could tell, the classroom was as safe as she could make it.

“Oh,” said Draco, and brushed quickly past her. “Take his side about what?”

“Oh, you know…” she said evasively.

He smirked at her then, interest piqued. “No, I don’t. What happened?”

Hermione busied herself with repairing a hole in the wall while she considered how to explain it. “I made the mistake of saying you weren’t all that different from us. And he, er, blew up at it.”

Draco snorted. “Prick.”

“Hey, don’t say that,” she said softly, but her heart wasn’t really in it.

“Come on, Granger, what else?” he asked. “I can tell there’s more.”

She lowered her wand to fold her arms. “Nosy thing, aren’t you?”

“Forgive me for seeking conversation,” he grumbled, and she laughed.

“I know, I know. Look, it’s nothing really. He just made a, er, cutting remark about his losses during the war. About how I wouldn’t understand.”

Draco looked genuinely dumbfounded at this. “What’s that got to do with anything? Does he really think he’s the only one that’s had a hard time?”

“He lost his brother,” Hermione said quietly.

“And you lost your parents!”

He saw her flinch, and an expression of guilt passed suddenly over his face. He inhaled sharply. “I… Sorry, Hermione, I overstepped.”

“No,” she said, more firmly than she had intended. She took a breath. “No. You’re right. You… ha, you’ve actually said almost exactly what I was thinking in the moment.”

He nodded, silently, and they each turned back to the tasks at hand.

Several minutes later, Hermione had engrossed herself so fully in repairing a section of damaged floorboards that she didn’t notice Draco sigh and put his wand down.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he said, and Hermione’s head snapped up to look at him. “But you deserve to be listened to. You shouldn’t have to ignore your pain just because he’s hurting too.”

Empathy wasn’t something that Hermione had ever thought could be enchanting. But as she stared into Draco’s grey eyes, full of an understanding that she had never expected to see there, she couldn’t deny that it was drawing her as strongly as a magnet.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He huffed out a breath. “Don’t get used to it, Granger. Remember, I’m in this for selfish reasons only.”

She grinned and pointed to the floorboard before him, where he had just etched ‘ _F.U.C.’_ , and he snorted in derision.

“Ugh, I take it all back. Keep your feelings to yourself in future.”

She laughed at that, and it was as if that was all that needed to be said on the matter.

* * *

When Hermione apologised to the Fat Lady (as was becoming routine at this point, after so many late-night excursions) and squeezed through into the common room, she realised with a start that she wasn’t alone.

Ron was sat on a sofa in the middle of the room, dressed in his baggy Quidditch jersey. He looked dishevelled and almost sleep-tousled, even though Hermione knew there was no way he could have slept yet. 

“Ron-” she said, taken aback.

“Hermione. I…” he looked down at his lap. “Can we talk?”

Even though she felt practically at the point of dozing off, and at that moment wanted nothing more than to climb into bed, she found herself nodding and settling herself down on the sofa beside him. There was a heavy silence, but she would be damned if she broke it first.

“I, er. I’m sorry, about earlier,” Ron said tentatively.

She nodded in acknowledgment, waiting for him to continue.

“Look, about you and Malfoy hanging out. I… Merlin, I’m sorry, but I hate it. I’m trying to be nice about it, but honestly, Hermione, I can’t lie. I just _hate_ it. It makes me, just… absolutely furious. But I… Harry reminded me that, you know, it’s not fair for me to take that out on you. So I’m… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that. I’m really sorry.”

It was an apology that would have been enough any other time. But Ron’s earnest brown eyes reminded her of a pair of grey ones that had stared into her own only a short while ago, and she knew that there was more still to be said.

“Thank you,” she said, slowly. “But there’s, er, something else I’ve wanted to talk to you about. Something I realised a while ago, but, er…” she tailed off, biting her lip to try and keep her emotions in check. “I need you to understand that I lost things in the war too. You weren’t the only one who, who had to make impossible choices, and lost people you love.” Her voice cracked.

His eyes softened, rounded, mouth falling open, but she continued.

“I lost my parents, Ron. I know that you think that I’ll be able to bring them back, and it’ll all be fine again, but I, just, I really _don’t know_. It’s going to take a lot of work to undo what I did to them, and even if their memories come back, there’s no guarantee that our relationship will ever be the same. And I’m dealing with that now, having to come to terms with the fact that because of something I did, admittedly for the right reasons, I may never have parents again. So it… It really, _really_ hurts me when you say that I don’t understand because I didn’t lose anything in the war.”

She was crying openly now, the tears spilling silently down her cheeks. The silence was too long. “Do you understand?”

His eyebrows drew together, eyes closing, as if trying to block something out. “Yes,” he answered. “I understand. I guess I just… You’re _you_. You’re _Hermione Granger_. I just always thought… of _course_ you’ll get them back.”

“I’m not infallible, Ron," she whispered.

He nodded slowly, silently. “I know. I’m sorry.”

She blinked slowly and wiped the tears from her eyes. “I’m trying to give Malfoy a second chance,” she said finally. “He’s been kind to me. I know it doesn’t erase the past, but… it’s enough for me. And I’m not asking you to like it, but I… I think we’re… kind of friends, now.”

Ron nodded again, the muscles in his cheek working as they often did when he was trying to figure out what to say. “You… you’re brilliant, Hermione. And you’re kind. You’re… so much more forgiving than me.”

She folded his hand in hers, and he slumped against her, face coming to rest in the crook of her shoulder.

“I’m sorry too,” she whispered, and stared into the fireplace as he breathed into her skin, unsure how someone who loved her with all his heart could still not quite understand her.

* * *

The first thing Hermione noticed when she came down to breakfast on a cold November morning was that Luna’s lion headdress from years gone by had made a reappearance for the first Quidditch game of the year.

Grinning, Hermione made her way down the centre of the hall and slid onto the bench next to all two feet of the hat’s golden-maned glory. “Morning, Luna.”

The lion let out a roar in response, before swivelling round as Luna turned to face her, smiling sunnily. “Good morning Hermione. Have you met my hat?”

“Of course,” Hermione giggled. “Have you done something new to it?”

“Oh, yes,” Luna replied. “It has built in a Nargle-repellent now, and I did some braiding! Do you see the fishtail plait?”

“Very artistic,” declared Hermione. Luna beamed at her and turned back to her pomegranate-seed-dotted porridge.

“Has anyone seen Ron this morning?” asked Harry, from a few seats over.

“Oh, yes,” answered Hermione, as she started pouring out a bowl of cereal. “He got up early this morning to prepare. I imagine he’s already in the changing rooms by now.”

He had waited down in the common room for Hermione to appear, then hugged her briskly, planted a kiss to her cheek, and told her that he felt good about today’s game and couldn’t wait for her to see before disappearing downstairs for an early breakfast.

It had been unexpected, but quite sweet, really, she had thought. Still, the thought of taking her entire day off work in order to watch the game wasn’t a particularly enchanting prospect. The back of her mind was very familiar with thinking about the three essays she had still to complete, and then there was the matter of needing to refresh her memory on her tiling and grouting spells for when she and Draco moved onto their next project – a bathroom.

She sighed. At least there was always tomorrow.

“That doesn’t sound like Ron. Has he been in contact with Oliver Wood lately, by any chance?” joked Ginny. “Or is it just a Keeper thing, do you think?”

Harry laughed. “I wouldn’t mind one of Oliver’s motivational speeches right now. It’s been a long time since someone told me to get the snitch or die trying.”

“Mm,” said Hermione. “People really are _far_ too laid back about Quidditch these days.”

“Well, I won’t ask you to die for the Quidditch cup, but I will remind you, in Oliver’s words, that losing to Hufflepuff is a fate worse than death,” Ginny told Harry. “It’s up to you to figure out your priorities.”

“Harry, you’ve experienced losing to Hufflepuff _and_ dying, which one was worse for you?” asked Neville.

“Losing to Hufflepuff, for sure,” said Harry, unblinking. “I was in the hospital wing all weekend _and_ Oliver wouldn’t speak to me for a week.”

Everyone roared with laughter, including Luna’s hat.

* * *

After breakfast, Hermione had snuck down to the library to try and get as much work done as possible before the match. She had thrown herself into a Transfiguration essay, and had been so busy making the most of the empty library, that it was only when she resurfaced in order to fact-check something she thought she remembered from class, that she realised what time it was.

Ah, crap.

Hastily stuffing papers and quills into her bag, she raced out of the library and out of the castle, all the while cursing the Quidditch pitch for being so far away. She tried in vain to sweep her unruly curls out of her face while she ran, but the considerable wind made it impossible, so she instead yanked the hairband out and let her locks fly out behind her as she went.

The sounds of cheering reached her ears before long, and soon she was able to make out the dots of the Quidditch players swooping about in the air between the stands. Had Ron noticed her absence yet?

She was just wondering how on earth she was going to get herself up into the stands without being noticed when she heard something that snapped her out of her reverie.

“Granger.”

She looked down, towards the source of the noise, and spotted a blond head sticking out of a gap in the fabric of the spectators stands.

“Draco? Is that you?”

“No, it’s Professor Grubbly-Plank,” he retorted, deadpan, then smirked. “Care to join me?”

A mischievous grin that she felt was becoming all too familiar whenever she spent time with Draco spread across her face, and she crept closer.

He retreated, beckoning her in, and she realised that he’d settled himself into as comfortable a spot as possible inside the wooden stands themselves. As she pushed the tarp to one side and crawled into the space, she took in the blanket over the grass, the way the fabric had been clipped back to allow a view of the pitch, and the bottle of butterbeer in his hand.

“What?” he asked, suddenly self-conscious. “I like to be comfortable.”

Hermione laughed and came to sit cross-legged beside him. “Nice setup.”

“…Thanks. Butterbeer?”

Hermione shot him a scandalised look. “It’s one o’clock!”

“True. But it _is_ a Saturday,” he grinned, and offered her a bottle which she took without further complaint, a blush staining her cheeks. “So, Granger, why aren’t you up in the stands with you friends, cheering your boyfriend on to glory?”

She popped open the top of her bottle to avoid the embarrassment of answering for a few moments. “I got carried away in the library,” she admitted.

“Oh,” he said. “That’s fair enough. What were you working on?”

She blinked slowly. Harry or Ron would have teased her relentlessly at that admission. “Er, that Transfiguration essay on human-to-animal conversion…?” she said warily.

Draco wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t like that one. It reminded me of a rather unpleasant experience.”

“What do you- oh!” Hermione laughed in recollection. “I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to be a ferret.”

He glared at her, which only made her giggle more. She took a sip of butterbeer and considered that she quite liked the idea of being able to have a conversation while watching the game, away from all the shouting and cheering.

“So then, who’s winning?” she asked. Up above, the players were zooming through the air, the quaffle moving with lightning speed between them. She could just make out Ron at the opposite end of the pitch, slowly zigzagging between the hoops.

“Gryffindor,” Draco answered. “They’ve scored twice now. I don’t think there’s been any sign of the snitch yet, though.”

“Why didn’t you try out for the Slytherin team?” Hermione asked, before she could help herself.

“I did,” he answered, and looked decisively back at the pitch.

“What happened?”

He huffed softly, taking a swig of butterbeer. “I didn’t get in.”

It was clear that he wasn’t willing to share any more on the subject, but Hermione never had been very good at knowing when to leave well alone.

“Was that based on merit, or was it something to do with how some of the other students have been treating you?”

His unwillingness to look her way told her everything she needed to know. “Draco…”

“It’s fine,” he said, and raised the bottle to his lips again.

After a long while, Hermione pulled her gaze away from him and turned to watch the game again. She had to crane her neck a little, but the relative peace and quiet they could enjoy further away from the stands was worth it.

As the players zoomed around the pitch far above, the scores crept lazily upwards, but the snitch was still nowhere in sight after an hour. Sheltered from the wind, and surrounded by thick fabric, Hermione was soon feeling a little warm for comfort, so she pushed her sleeves up to her elbows, and reached into her bag to grab her wand for a cooling charm.

As she did, Draco glanced over, and paled visibly.

She followed his line of sight down to her exposed left forearm, and the ugly word carved into the skin there.

 _Mudblood_.

It was like he couldn’t look away, even though he must have been aware that he was staring well past the point of rudeness. There was a shocked revulsion on his face, but also a rawness that Hermione didn’t quite know how to interpret.

She shrugged her sleeve back down again, grabbed her wand, and returned to her sitting position, mortification building in her chest.

“Hermione…”

She ignored him, not trusting herself to say anything just yet. Above her head, the quaffle clanged through a hoop and the crowd erupted in cheers.

Below the action, Hermione’s heart felt as if it was being held in a vacuum, the negative pressure pulling at her diaphragm.

And then Draco cleared his throat and pushed his sleeve up.

There was a pause before he looked determinedly away from her and back up at the pitch, his jaw lifted. It was like he was encouraging her, daring her to look.

Hermione debated with herself for the minutest of seconds before giving in. And there it sat, the dark mark, stretched over the pale skin of his forearm. Her heart began to beat in her throat as she took in the sight of it.

The shape was still there, serpentine and sinuous and vile, but the colour was desaturated and drained, as if the ink beneath his skin had disintegrated to ash along with the man who had put it there. It was now no more than a scar, the skin greyed and almost sunken.

It made Hermione feel rather sick to look at. And yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Maybe that was how Draco had felt to look at her scar too.

She became aware, several moments later, that Draco was looking at her again. She held out her arm wordlessly, and together they gazed down at their two battle scars side by side.

“It used to feel so important, didn’t it,” Hermione said quietly. “You know. Mudblood. Death eater. And now…” She didn’t know how to finish.

He closed his fist, still looking down. His face had drawn in, tightened, an impassive mask. She wondered momentarily if he was Occluding. “They’re just scars.”

She was overwhelmed quite suddenly with the urge to fall into him, to press her face into his chest, to be held by him. To strengthen their thread of connection enough to support the weight of the emotions they shared.

But she didn’t.

She simply looked back up at the sky, at the tiny players zooming around playing a game that suddenly didn’t feel very important at all, and wondered if Draco had felt it too.

* * *

The conclusion of the match that day brought a win for Gryffindor house, and an exuberant joy in Ron’s constitution that didn’t dampen for the entire rest of the weekend. As it turned out, he hadn’t noticed Hermione’s absence from the Gryffindor stand at all, too busy ‘getting in the zone’, as he called it. Only Luna and Neville had noticed, and they easily accepted her explanation that she had arrived late and had to sit elsewhere.

In between monologuing a save-by-save retelling of the match that evening in the common room while Hermione attempted to finish her Transfiguration essay, Ron had asked her if she would like to go to Hogsmeade with him the next day. Despite her misgivings about when on earth she was going to be able to get her essays done, she accepted.

It had occurred to her that she was starting to feel as if Draco knew her better than Ron did, and she was determined not to let that build.

And so Sunday afternoon saw them walking to Hogsmeade together, hand in hand, Hermione’s scarf blowing out behind her in the winter wind. The Three Broomsticks was as bright and convivial as always, and the butterbeer was flowing with ease, which meant that Hermione, seated at a corner table across from a beaming Ron, felt the conversation flow with equal vivacity.

They chatted about everything it crossed their minds to talk about. Hermione mentioned how she was considering a future as a healer, but wondered whether it would frustrate her to leave behind the ideas for change she could enact at the Ministry if she pursued a career there. Ron, meanwhile, was still planning on becoming an Auror with Harry. The pair of them had been offered an automatic place on the training program following completion of at least three N.E.W.T.s, so she had no doubts that he would succeed in that plan.

Thankfully, the topic of _their_ future, as Ron had mentioned at her party, either did not occur to him, or he decided not to discuss it. And for that, Hermione was glad. She didn’t know if she was ready yet to discuss the finer points of a post-Hogwarts relationship, especially when she was slowly coming to terms with the fact that she didn’t know how to progress their relationship even at this stage. Things would be a lot easier, she thought, if she could just get over her discomfort with interactions of a sexual nature. Maybe then, things would become clear.

Hermione thought it odd that the butterbeer in her tankard didn’t seem to taste as sweet as the bottled one she had had the day before.

“How’s your mum doing?” she asked, hoping to derail that confusing train of thought.

A sad look entered Ron’s eyes. “She’s okay, I think. She’s just… mum. Definitely still coming to terms with it, with Fred, I mean, but she’ll be okay. I imagine it’ll be worse when we all come for Christmas.”

Hermione frowned in sympathy and folded Ron’s hand in her own. “You’ll get through it together, I know.”

He smiled at her. “Yeah. But speaking of Christmas, would you like to spend the holidays at the Burrow with us?”

“Definitely,” she beamed, grateful beyond words. She didn’t know if she would be able to face a Christmas without her parents alone. “Thank you.”

“Any time. Like I said before, we’ll always be your family.”

Hermione wasn’t sure if the back of her mind interpreted a second meaning in that statement.

* * *

On their way back to the castle, they decided to pop into Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to check in on George, who was fixing a display of self-folding origami when they arrived.

Ron greeted him with an affectionate ‘oi’, and George clambered excitedly down his stepladder to say hello.

His beaming smile was in place, and the shop was immaculately kept and as full of colour as ever, but Hermione knew him well enough by now to see the permanent sadness in his eyes, the lines on his face that had only appeared with the loss of his twin.

She hugged him warmly. “How is everything?”

“Oh, you know,” George replied, gesturing vaguely at the shop. “Business is booming, as per. I can barely keep the hovering inkpots on the shelves.”

Hermione grinned at him.

“How are _you_ doing?” Ron asked his brother, so warmly and genuinely that Hermione’s heart ached. And a small, selfish part of her wondered when the last time was that he had asked _her_ something like that.

George’s carefully constructed mask lowered minutely. “I’m okay,” he said softly. “And in the times I’m not, I know I will be.” Then he shook it off, and the mask was back. “You know how much Fred would bully me for saying that?”

“All too well,” grinned Ron.

“Stop trying to bring the mood down,” said George, folding his arms and planting a grin on his face. “Buy something or piss off.”

They all laughed and Ron clapped him on the back in a display of understated brotherly affection.

Hermione wondered just how many people had been living their daily lives with masks in place ever since the war. There were three of them standing in that room alone.

* * *

Searching for quiet, Hermione and Ron had returned to the castle early and made the most of the abandoned boys’ dormitory to sequester themselves away behind the drapes of Ron’s four poster bed.

Hermione lay on her front, absent-mindedly filling in a crossword, while Ron flipped through the pages of the latest Chudley Cannons magazine beside her, occasionally exclaiming in excitement or grimacing in disapproval at the articles within.

They had been chatting idly, and Hermione had been feeling delighted about how relaxed she felt to be spending time with Ron like this, when he slipped his magazine away beneath his pillow, rolled onto his side, threw an arm over her waist, and slotted his body beside hers.

“Herm,” he muttered into her hair.

She smiled. “Yeah?”

“You’re pretty.”

She laughed and pushed the crossword puzzle away. “Thank you.”

He began pressing tiny, warm kisses to her shoulder, arcing up across her neck and under her jaw. Her heart immediately began to race, but she forced herself to stay calm. It was just Ron. She liked kissing him, didn’t she?

She rolled onto her side to face him and leant forward to slot a kiss against his lips, her hands bunching uncertainly in his shirt. It was sweet, and tender, but Ron was fiery in everything he did, and kissing her was no exception. Heat began to build, and soon his hands were against the small of her back, skin to skin, pulses thundering.

“How are you feeling?” he asked her kindly, noticing her hesitation.

“Uh, okay. I, I like this,” she stammered. “I like you.” He kissed her cheek and she sighed. “I’m just so nervous, Ron. This kind of thing… it scares me.”

Nodding, he lifted a hand to tuck a curl of her hair behind her ear. “That’s okay. Remember, we go at your pace. We don’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

She sighed again, hating the way these moments always made her feel like the opposite of the strong, independent woman she knew herself to be. “But that’s the problem, I want to… to do things. More things. I just get scared.”

There was a soft silence. “I wonder sometimes if I should just take the leap,” she continued. “Perhaps I’m only scared because I’ve never done anything like this before. It’s normal to be nervous, your first time, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Well, I’m nervous too, so er, probably,” Ron laughed, a pink flush appearing on his cheeks. “But I don’t think we should go taking any leaps, today, you know. You need time to think about it.”

Hermione was constantly blown away by how understanding and patient Ron was in these situations, especially considering how headstrong and reckless he was in every other aspect of his life. In the bedroom, he respected her limits, refused to push her boundaries, took his time with her… So why didn’t everything else follow? Shouldn’t she be madly, desperately in love with him? Shouldn’t she want to throw caution to the wind and dive into this thing together?

It just didn’t make sense. She loved him. And she wanted intimacy, wanted to experience those kinds of things. But somehow her love for him and her desire for intimacy just… didn’t seem to match up somehow.

Perhaps she needed to connect the dots?

“Maybe we could try… some stuff?” she suggested quietly, heat flaring in her cheeks. “I’ll tell you if I want to stop. But I just… I think if I never give it a go, I’ll only get more scared. So maybe we just start small, you know?”

Ron’s eyes were filling with an awed, barely-able-to-believe-it excitement. “Are you sure?” he asked breathlessly, hesitantly.

She nodded slowly, and reached out to him, pulling him in for a new kiss. “Yes.” Her heartbeat was so loud in her chest that she felt he must have been able to hear it audibly, but he relaxed into her, pressed a gentle hand into her hip, comforting her, and let their kisses build to somewhere new.

They had undressed together before, but this time, when he removed her shirt, it felt like a huge new line had been crossed. There was an understanding between them, a ‘let’s see where things go’ clause of an unspoken contract.

He rolled onto her while they undressed, pressing ardent kisses to her jaw, and her hands traced over the skin of his back, mapping him out in ribs and vertebrae.

And when Ron’s hand made its way nervously between her legs for the very first time, Hermione was perhaps more terrified that she had ever felt in her life, yet desperate to break the cycle of fear. She could do this.

She had touched herself before, of course she had. She knew how everything worked, had read the books, had had her own little fantasies and daydreams in her own four-poster-bed. But having someone else explore the most intimate part of herself was something so entirely new that she had no idea what to think. She knew that she should be guiding him, letting him know what she liked, but the very idea of suggesting how he could touch her felt like an insurmountable challenge, and so she quietly pressed kisses to Ron’s neck, wishing he could read her mind, detaching slightly from the sensation of his fingers against her.

She could feel the firmness of his erection against her hip, the evidence that he had been wanting this for so very long, and she squirmed slightly at the thought, unsure whether it was a good or a bad one.

Ron apparently thought it was good; and pressed his fingers harder against her.

 _Ouch_.

Ron rapidly reconsidered his assumption. “Are you okay?”

She wriggled slightly, embarrassment heating her cheeks. “Sorry, it just… that hurt, a little.”

“Oh,” he said, his face falling and hand retreating. “I’m so sorry.”

She wound him tightly in a hug, feeling oddly relieved. “It’s okay! Don’t worry. This is, uh, new for both of us.”

They lay in silence for a moment, unsure where to go from there, and then it was his turn to wriggle in discomfort, making a face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, concerned, and he flushed rather brightly.

“I, uh…” he tailed off, ears pink, and she let herself look down. She had never seen him uncovered like this before, and she was soon blushing too at the shape of him, still so obviously aroused. Hermione had the instinctive feeling that he would be so for a while yet.

“Do you…” She bit her lip. “Would you like, maybe, to… to touch yourself? Here?”

He blinked at her, and Hermione wondered bizarrely how it was possible to have so much blood in his cheeks at the same time as… well.

“It just feels like maybe it could be a good first step. Logically, you know…”

He grinned lopsidedly at her in amusement, letting out an embarrassed laugh. “Yeah, logically. Um. Are you sure? I mean, I’d like to, Merlin, I think I _need_ to, but, er, is that really okay with you?”

Yes. It would be. Right? It was the easiest way she could think of to get used to taking their relationship to this new realm of physicality, without needing to summit the impossible task of touching him for the first time, and while avoiding the embarrassment of him not being able to touch her the way she needed.

“Yes,” she said again, this time out loud. “I’d like it. Very much.”

“You can, er, do the same too, if you like,” he said shyly, but in truth, Hermione didn’t know if she’d ever felt less like touching herself, so she shook her head kindly and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

He kissed her back, wrapping her in softness and earnestness before settling beside her, one arm beneath her head as she cradled into him, and the other hand… there.

It was strange, and it was new, but it wasn’t overwhelming, it didn’t panic her. Hermione watched his nervous face, listened to his breathing, to the small noises in the back of his throat. She wondered if perhaps one day those noises might fuel her, might fill her up like helium in a balloon.

All she knew was that in that moment, as he buried his face into her neck and sucked the delicate skin there, it slowly dawned on her than instead of feeling excited, she felt… almost numb.

Determined not to let this panic her, she kissed him slowly again. He was getting close now, she thought, and he arched up into her as if confirming this thought.

“Merlin, Hermione, I love you,” he said, and he unravelled against her, mouth falling open before he regained his senses and began to panic. “Oh, fuck, sorry! I got it on y-!”

“It’s okay!” she said quickly, even as her heart rate thundered upwards and her skin crawled. “It’s fine.”

Ron beamed at her, flushed and sweaty and looking so in love that Hermione’s chest ached. He pressed one last exhausted kiss to her lips, then flopped bonelessly onto the bed, eyelids already drooping. “Think I’m, think I need to… fall asleep.”

“Oh… Uh, that’s okay, Ron,” she whispered thickly, finding herself unable to process how she was feeling. “You… you fall asleep.”

As his breathing slowed and his body relaxed, the sticky wetness against her skin grew cold, the love bite on her neck ached, and her heart raced on, well past the point she could blame on arousal.

She couldn’t seem to tear her wide eyes away from a patch of threadbare fabric in the canopy overhead. 

She felt very far away. As if she was disconnected from her body.

A hot tide of revulsion rose in her throat and grabbed her wand from under the pillow. She spelled herself clean, once, twice, three times, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of dirtiness that clung to her like a wet cloak. She rolled away from him, bundled herself up in the duvet, and stared back up at that threadbare bit of fabric again, eyes prickling.

She really had thought that she was doing the right thing. She really, truly had. But as a tear burned its way down her cheek and Ron began to snore softly, she realised that she wasn’t so sure.

* * *

Uncertainties rolled round and around in Hermione’s mind as Ron slept on. It felt as if the entire earth beneath her feet had shifted, and she didn’t have the slightest idea how to right herself.

One thing she did know for sure, was that the idea of Ron waking up and asking her what she thought of the whole experience terrified her.

And so even though she knew it was wrong, while he slept, she found herself pulling her clothes back on and sneaking out of the dormitory. Torn for a moment, she eventually decided to write him a tiny scrap of a note making an excuse about needing to go to the library, in the hopes that doing so would hurt him less when he woke up without her.

And then her feet were pacing down the spiral staircase, down towards the great hall, before taking a very sudden set of unexpected turns and depositing her squarely at the entrance to the south corridor.

Hermione stared across the chasm.

She didn’t know why she was there, but it felt right.

Before she could debate it further, she had crossed the gap and set off into the depths of the south wing.

She was so used now to casting flares as she walked that it came habitually, the bright sparks spiralling out of her wand with every step. She knew that the main corridor would most likely be safe by now, with the number of times she and Draco had explored it, but she had learnt last year that it was always better to be overcautious than complacent. She allowed herself to wander through the deserted corridors and hallways, marvelling at the difference between the spaces she and Draco had repaired, and those that had remained untouched since the war.

One particular classroom seemed to call out to her and she entered, sending a cautious flare in through the door, which thankfully didn’t set anything off. As she took a step, she thought she heard a floorboard creak behind her, but a quick glance around revealed no one but the dust and the damp, so she continued regardless.

This room was surrounded by old cabinets and chests, most of them with holes blown clear through the sides. The desks had been blown backwards by some kind of explosion, and they lay stacked up in haphazard zig-zags against one wall. Pocketing her wand, she made her way further into the room, and as she began to consider what she could go about fixing first, she stumbled over a lump of stone on the floor and threw out a hand for support, colliding with a nearby cabinet.

She was aware of several things as she fell. A blinding red light beaming out from where her hand made contact with the wood. A series of wild, panicked footsteps. And a voice shouting “NO!”

After that, she didn’t even notice hitting the floor, because all she was aware of was pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger! Next update coming on Saturday <3  
> I'd love to hear what you're thinking as we come up to the halfway point! The next chapter is one of my favourites...


	9. "I've Had Enough of Cabinets"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter nine!   
> The first part of this chapter really reminded me of 'Human' by 'Daughter', I'd definitely recommend checking that out if you fancy :D   
> On to the cliffhanger resolution...

Hermione was back in Malfoy manor. She was there, she could feel the cold marble floor coming up to meet her, she could hear Bellatrix’s sadistic laugh. She was there, but it wasn’t a nightmare.

She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. Her muscles ripped her one way and the other in a futile attempt to escape the agony that crackled through her body, spreading out like tongues of lightning from the moment her hand had made contact with the cabinet. Her spine arched and cracked with the pain of it, tears leaking from her eyes. She would do anything, anything at all, for it to be over. She was going to die. She was certain of it.

It was only when it stopped and she collapsed back to the floor that she realised she had been screaming.

The whole ordeal had probably only lasted a handful of seconds. But Hermione felt like she had fought an entire war in the time it had taken her to hit the floor.

As the last vestiges of pain retreated from her body like the ebbing of a tide, Hermione was too exhausted to do anything but flop back against the freezing cold floor, staring up at the ceiling the way she had stared at the hangings of Ron’s bed what felt like a lifetime ago.

Disconnected.

A thousand more lifetimes later, she summoned the strength to flick her eyes to the side, and there he was.

Draco Malfoy sat by her side, white with shock. His breaths were coming in shallow gasps, and as Hermione stared at him, at nothing but him, a tear dripped from his jaw and onto her shoulder.

She blinked dully and his eyes widened.

“Are you okay?” he gasped, rubbing furiously at the tear tracks on his cheeks.

She blinked again. Her voice box wasn’t working. Her brain wasn’t working. An age may have passed before she was able to close her eyes and nod.

“Thank _fuck_ ,” he whispered, and then, to her shock, he grabbed fistfuls of the fabric of her robes and clenched them tight, squeezing his eyes shut and locking his jaw. “It was just... it was just like-”

“Like last time,” Hermione croaked out, her senses crashing back like floodwater. Draco let out a desperate, wrung-out breath

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he breathed.

“Yes,” she whispered. Her thoughts were sluggish, her brain still shrinking away from the stimuli of the world. But her heart began to slow, her breath returned, Draco gazed at her, and she knew that she was safe.

“I see it in my nightmares,” Draco burst out, the truth spilling from his lips like a potion he was tired of swallowing. “That night. I couldn’t bear it, not then, not now, and fuck, I was helpless again. I couldn’t do anything, I couldn't help you, I _couldn’t_ -”

He squeezed his eyes shut again, and Hermione stared wordlessly.

This was him.

This was Draco Malfoy, without his mask, or barriers, or walls. 

Rendered defenceless by her pain. 

She slowly, groggily, pushed herself up to a seating position. The room was dark and cold around them, the hardwood floor unforgiving. A gentle, unsteady light from the tip of his wand was the only illumination in the dark room, surrounded as they were by piles of furniture. Hermione reached out hesitantly to touch his shoulder, and he bent into her, fingers clenching tigher into her robes.

“I’m sorry. Oh, Salazar, this is pathetic, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she breathed, half in shock still at this unfiltered, unedited version of him. “I’m okay. You couldn’t have done anything. It was just a spell. Just a spell.”

His shoulders shook, and Hermione clutched him closer. She couldn’t quite work out who was comforting who, but it felt raw, and warm, and real. Draco was letting her see him, truly, for the first time. And even though her bones ached, and her pulse throbbed, all she could think about was wanting to prove that he was right to trust her.

“Tell me about last year,” she asked, and he looked up sharply, wiping the tears from his cheekbones. “Tell me about what happened to you.”

He sniffed in an entirely non-Malfoy-like way. And then, he began to talk. The words were hesitant, and first, and then they flowed, came crashing out like the spring rush of a waterfall after the cracking of winter ice.

“He came to the manor,” he said. “He didn’t have to threaten us, we knew exactly what would happen if we dared refuse. He took over the building, the very foundations of it. The dark magic was everywhere. In the furnishings and the walls; in my bedroom. I knew what I had to do. And I thought I knew what I believed in, but when I saw that the three of you had been captured, it felt like... the world... was _ending_. I couldn’t force myself to tell them it was you, that it was Potter, no matter how much I told myself it was my duty. And then Bella turned her wand on _you_ , and someone I knew was being tortured right in front of me, and you never did a thing to deserve it…”

He took a deep, shuddering breath, and looked back down at the floor. “That was the last time I even _tried_ to convince myself I believed in what I was fighting for. I promised myself I’d never be that helpless ever again. And then today you… you burst through an unknown room in this fucking castle and you set off a fucking _crucio,_ and you were in so much pain and there was just _nothing I could do_ … I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” he finished, descending into fractured sobs again.

“It’s okay. Don’t talk. It’s okay.”

Hermione had no idea how she was able to pull herself together enough to comfort him, but she did. Somehow… it was okay. It just… was.

It was anyone’s guess how long they stayed there on that Sunday evening, hands bunched in the cloth of one another’s robes as if it could hold them together. It was bizarre, when Hermione stopped to think about it, but there wasn’t a single doubt in her mind that this was what she needed.

What _they_ needed.

When his sobs faded, silence fell, and with it, a certain discomfort at the depth of what they had just experienced. They parted, slowly, carefully. Draco’s delicate fingers loosened awkwardly from their grip.

They were the only two people in the castle who had been in that room in Malfoy Manor last year. And they were the only people in the entire _world_ who knew exactly what they each had gone through.

It felt to Hermione as if that thread of connection between them had morphed into an elastic band. It was finally thick enough to support the weight of their fears and doubts, and it made more sense to let it pull them together than to resist it.

“What were you doing down here?” she asked eventually.

He looked embarrassed. “I’ve been spending my weekends here, seeing what I can mend. The common room isn’t exactly the most welcoming place, at the moment, for me. I like being here. I like…helping. And when I heard footsteps I hid, thinking it was a teacher. And then when I realised, and I came to find you… it was too late.”

“So much for selfish reasons, eh?” she said weakly, and he grimaced.

“Enough of me. Are _you_ okay?” he asked.

“Okay,” she sighed. “At the time, it was just as bad as the real thing, but it obviously didn’t last as long, and I think it’s wearing off quicker now. I suppose when it’s cast deliberately, it hits your entire body at once, but this time, it came from where my hand touched that cabinet, so it was concentrated there, away from my chest. You know, I heard that the closer to your heart a _crucio_ is targeted, the more it hurts. I wonder if that explains the difference…?”

Draco was studying her with an unreadable expression. “Trust you to make this sound like a homework assignment. Are you _sure_ you’re alright?”

She smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

“Do you need anything?”

Her lips twitched. “Probably a shower, and a long sleep.”

“Oh,” he smirked. “I can’t help with that.”

She felt a blush colour her cheeks.

At that moment, they both simultaneously became aware of the sound of lopsided, shuffling footsteps and the jingling of keys in the corridor outside.

“Come on, my sweet, we’ll catch those filthy little beasts, oh, we will. They went this way, did they, eh? Students in the forbidden wing, I’ll have them… I will…”

“Oh fuck,” hissed Draco, at the same time as Hermione scrambled to her feet in a panic.

“Filch,” she whispered.

The footsteps were right by the door.

In an instant, they had grabbed at one another with the desperation of cornered criminals, and then Draco was pulling her into a tiny alcove in the classroom, no, a cabinet, and closing the door on them both.

They were pressed tightly together in the dark there, so close that Hermione could feel his hurried breath against her forehead. She had the foresight to cast a whispered silencing charm, a notice-me-not, and a locking charm in quick succession, with only milliseconds to spare before the old school caretaker burst into the room.

“Where are they hiding, eh? I’ll find them, I will-”

Peering through the tiniest of cracks in the cabinet door, Hermione watched as Filch stepped warily into the centre of the room. It was as if he had been warned not to touch anything here, because he kept his hands tucked closely into his middle, with his sharp, pointy elbows sticking out either side and Mrs Norris clutched grumpily under one arm. She miaowed malcontentedly and he hushed her in low, gravelly voice.

“I know, I know, my sweet, but we’re to be careful, we are, McGonagall insisted,” he wheezed, lifting the dusty lantern that he clung to with his non-cat-bearing hand. He seemed intent on surveying every inch of the room.

At one point, he came so close to their hiding place that Hermione made a sharp intake of breath and yanked her face away from the door, burying it accidentally in Draco’s chest instead. She felt him freeze, but they both knew now was not the time to make a fuss, so they stayed there, motionless, Draco’s escalating heartbeat in her ear, waiting for the yellow light to pass by.

Eventually the caretaker seemed forced to conclude that there were no rule-breakers to be found. Grumbling all the while about what punishments he would employ if he caught ‘the beasts’, he finally shuffled out of the room, and with a final, dissatisfied yowl from Mrs Norris, he was gone.

Hermione let out the breath she had been holding.

“I hate that man,” said Draco, grumpily.

Hermione giggled first, and then he couldn’t help but join in, snorting with amusement at their rollercoaster of a half-hour.

As the laughter faded, Hermione found she was suddenly becoming all too aware of the warmth of his body against hers, the way she was crushed into him, the closeness of his eyes and mouth, the steady rising and falling of his breath, the way her heart began to thud as he looked down at her, an intensity in his eyes.

She stared up at him as they went quiet.

There was something hot and thrilling in her stomach, something put there by his gaze, and it sent a shockwave through her body, electricity forging down to her toes. She heard more than felt her lips part in surprise, the soft breath released seeming ten times as loud as normal in the silence of the room. His hand brushed hers.

“Merlin, your hands are cold,” he whispered.

And then they both seemed to remember themselves at the exact same time, the door was flung open, and they threw themselves out onto the floor with the force of a small bomb.

“Sorry, I-”

“Ha, sorry-”

They grinned apologetically at one another, and Hermione shoved him. “Now, don’t you get used to throwing me in a cabinet when you want me to shut up.”

He rolled his eyes. “Believe me, I had enough of cabinets in sixth year.”

Her eyes widened, and then they were both cackling with laughter again.

It had been a long day, and an upsetting one, and Hermione knew that she would need to sleep for about fourteen hours to feel anything close to normal. But for now, somehow, even after everything that had happened that day… she was happy.

* * *

It was as if that day and all of the drama it contained had flicked a switch, because the days afterwards seemed to absolutely fly by. Between classes, homework, spending time with her friends and with Ron, and the club, the rest of November disappeared in a flash. Before they knew it, Christmas was only around the corner.

Hermione had wanted so desperately to explain to Ron how she had felt, that day behind the hangings of his four-poster bed, but every time she tried to put it to words, she found herself speechless. After several attempts to tell him, Ron began to see that she hadn’t liked it as much as he had, but he didn’t really understand why, and Hermione knew that was her fault. She wished she could tell him, but something about the words she knew she needed to say felt far too much like a rejection, and she couldn’t bring herself to actively drive such a wedge between them.

And so she had left it alone.

Things weren’t exactly peachy, but at least they were still… them.

They hadn’t attempted anything like that afternoon again. Their interactions were limited to those surrounded by friends, and any time alone was spent buried in their own activities. It was as if their relationship had basically gone back to… friendship. Which, Hermione had to admit, brought her a great deal of relief.

As the days got colder and the nights longer, the desperation of the professors of Hogwarts to return the castle to normal seemed to reach fever pitch. It was more common than ever to pass a professor in the corridor with their wand out, focusing intently, and sometimes they’d even rush into classrooms a couple of minutes late for their own class, having just completed repairs somewhere on the opposite side of the castle.

It appeared that the focus was now on repairing any holes and breaches of the castle’s outer infrastructure, in order to shut out the cruel winter wind. Broken tapestries, statues, and staircases were abandoned in favour of windows and walls.

Every day as she moved from one classroom to another, Hermione had gotten into the habit of discreetly pointing her wand at any small cracks and missing stones she spotted, blocking out one more tiny aperture at a time. There was a certain joy in being able to contribute to the professors’ task, and so every flick of her wand was accompanied with a smug grin. Every so often, she’d pass Draco as she did, and he would smirk secretly at her as if he knew exactly what she was doing.

In private, their friendship only grew, unburdened by the judging eyes of the rest of the student body. The adventures of the fondly named Fixer-Upper Club had taken them through even more rooms, into bathrooms and supply closets. The sight of their first completed stained-glass window had almost reduced Hermione to tears. The two of them would meet at least twice a week in the pitch-black of the South Corridor, light it up with flares and sparks as they cleared the rooms of hidden curses, and work on the rebuilding effort, chatting all the while.

It was starting to feel to Hermione as if she was really, truly getting to know Draco behind all the masks he wore.

* * *

It was a chilly December morning, and Hermione had just tucked into a bowl of muesli in the great hall, listening to the idle chatter over the breakfast table.

“I’m not kidding, she ended up in the great lake!” Padma was telling Parvati. “I saw Madam Hooch dragging her to McGonagall’s office, still dripping. Some say she was showing off because it was her first Quidditch lesson, but I heard that her broom was acting up, and I wonder if it’s got something to do with what Peeves was up to when Filch had to chase him out of the broomshed last week!”

Parvati giggled. “Remember your first Quidditch lesson, Neville?”.

Neville gulped. “If I ever have to get back on a broom, it’ll be too soon,” he mumbled into his porridge.

“I think that’s what Imelda Jenkins said too, after her run-in with the giant squid,” said Padma, and everyone laughed.

At that moment, Dean Thomas came skidding into the hall and squeezed himself onto the bench between Seamus and Padma. “I did it,” he grinned. “I convinced Ernie and Justin to host a Christmas party.”

Parvati gasped. “A Hufflepuff party?!”

“You bet,” he confirmed. “And, even better, it’s for seventh and eighth years _only_.”

This prompted a gleeful outburst of cheers and whoops of laughter from everyone at the table. Hermione smiled, shaking her head. No doubt this night would be… a little wilder than her birthday party, to say the least.

“It’s next Friday,” Dean continued. “Last night of term. Bring your own booze, or you can chip in a galleon and they’ll make lash.”

“What on earth is lash?” Hermione asked Ginny quietly, but clearly not quietly enough.

“Aha!” said Seamus, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s a fantastic invention. Two glasses of it, and you’ll be so hammered you won’t be able to tell your wand from your-”

“It’s basically just alcoholic punch,” Dean explained, grinning, while Ron and Seamus cackled. “A bit of firewhiskey, a bit of rum, a dash of whatever else you have lying around, and enough fruit juice to disguise the horrible flavour.”

“Sounds ideal,” grinned Ginny, devilishly. “We always used to call it Jarvey Juice.”

As everyone’s excitement began to build, Hermione smiled to herself. They had quite clearly forgotten all about the hangovers that had accompanied their last drinking endeavour. Still, she found herself making a mental note to set a galleon aside. Not only would she attend, she decided, but she would have _fun_ doing it.

And maybe, (probably), she would invite Draco again.

* * *

“So, er,” Draco said one night, as they stood side by side peeling cracked plaster away from a crumbling wall. They hadn’t been able to bring themselves to target the cabinet room yet, the memories of that fateful night still fresh in their memories, so they’d started on another classroom a few doors down. “You and Weasley.”

Hermione flushed hotly, the topic of Ron not exactly her favourite thing of late. “Yes?”

Draco cleared his throat as the final strip of plaster floated down above them. “How did that happen?”

Hermione began a tricky spell to reconstitute the flaky plaster into liquid again, which saved her from answering for a short while. “Er, well, you see…” Her brain whirred, unsure how to even put it into words. “I think it had been brewing for a while. And then, er, at the battle of Hogwarts, we went searching for something. And we found it, and he said something about house elves that meant a lot to me, and… well, I kissed him.”

Draco was silent for a long while, using his wand to smear globs of plaster across the wall before them. “I didn’t realise house elf justice was such a romantic topic.”

She snorted. “It’s not. It was just… a very non-Ron-like thing to say.”

“So you kissed him because he wasn’t being himself?” Draco smirked.

“No!” she cried, her cheeks flaming again. She splattered a line of plaster onto the wall and Draco began to smooth it over, still grinning at his own joke. “It was just… never mind. It was the battle, you know, a lot of emotions, er, running high, and all that.”

He considered this for a moment. “It’s odd that your relationship started amid something we’re trying to erase all evidence of.”

Hermione felt uncomfortably like he had just told her something about herself that she hadn’t previously been aware of, and it itched at her skin. Discontented, she stayed silent, turned away, and began to wave her wand at a group of splintering cracks in a nearby windowsill.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, and she shook her head in dismissal.

“It’s nothing. It was a fair point.”

There was a pause as they each concentrated once more on their individual tasks. “You know, I always thought it would be you and Potter,” Draco said tentatively, after a while.

“Oh, God no,” Hermione said quickly, cringing internally. She made a face at him. “He’s the best friend I could ask for, but definitely not.”

“Fair enough,” he responded, and the tension disappeared again.

“I actually always thought it would be you and Pansy,” Hermione suggested.

Draco frowned and looked away. “I don’t think so. I rarely see her these days, anyway.” Hermione thought she detected a hint of sadness in his words, as though he had given up on the idea. Perhaps there were still feelings there, underneath it all?

“You could always write her?” she said.

Draco appraised the finished wall before him, his expression blank. “She’s actually coming back to Hogwarts after Christmas.”

Hermione’s eyebrows lifted, and something unusual tightened in her chest. “Oh?” There was a silence. “Well, er, that’ll be nice?” she suggested.

“Mm.”

Hermione tried for humour. “I promise not to get jealous if you start hanging out with her instead of me.”

He flashed her a grin at that. “You have my permission to get jealous. I wouldn’t be a very good friend if I ditched you as soon as she came back.”

She couldn’t help but smile a little. “Well, it would be a little different if you two started dating,” she teased.

He scoffed. “We’re not going to start dating. I don’t think I’m her type, and even if I were, I’m hardly an eligible bachelor these days.”

“You have other charms,” Hermione suggested. Draco whipped round to look at her, eyebrows high, and she felt her cheeks heat up. She turned away abruptly and waved a rejoining spell at the wall, despite it really not needing it. Desperate to bend to her will, two separate bricks knocked out the mortar between them and fused together, and she scowled.

“Bet you I can fix a window quicker than you.”

Hermione looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Draco was smirking at her, a devilish glint in his irises. He pointed at a set of matching windows further down the corridor and quirked his eyebrows.

A pause. And then both of them were racing off towards the windows in question, shoes pounding against the stone floors. Hermione raised her wand as she ran, casting a rapid _reparo_ and watching as the fragments of glass arranged themselves, slowly, slowly-

Done!

She looked round, grinning with glee, to see Draco standing next to her with an identically repaired window.

“You lose, Granger.”

“Yours had a smaller crack-” she complained.

“No it didn’t,” he said, the picture of innocence. The smile sat stubbornly on his face. “It was a fair fight.”

“Bullshit,” she declared, and turned away again to work on something while he laughed. There was a softness and a lightness in their friendship these days, and Hermione thought she could see that softness in his eyes whenever she glanced over at him for the remainder of the evening.

* * *

“There’s a Hufflepuff Christmas party for the older students next week,” she mentioned causally, when they were on their way back to their respective common rooms. “You should come.”

They trudged onwards for a while, Draco seemingly deep in thought. “Are you sure I’d be welcome?”

She turned round and fixed him with her best Molly Weasley-esque glare. “I wouldn’t let anyone make you feel unwelcome.”

He smiled awkwardly. “Thanks,” he said. “Truly. But surely you’ll want to be having fun, not waiting around to see if anyone makes a fuss?”

She stuck her tongue out at him in a show of childish solidarity. “I won’t be waiting around if I’m having fun with _you_ , now will I?”

Those spots of pink were on his cheekbones again. “But won’t you want to be spending the evening with Potter? With… your, er, boyfriend?”

“I spend more than enough time with Ron already,” Hermione complained, realising too late that she may have revealed more than she had intended. “I’ll have a lovely time with you. I always do.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do. Although perhaps less so on the occasions I get hit by a _cruciatus_ and you cry on me for half an hour.”

He scowled and she laughed. “Sorry, sorry. It was too tempting.”

There was a silence, and they reached the staircase down to the dungeons. “After the last party, you should have heard what people were saying about me in the corridors,” Draco said quietly, as they came to a stop. His face was set. Occluding again, she thought.

Hermione whipped her head round to look at him. “It got worse?”

“Of course it did,” he snapped, before settling himself again, shooting her an apologetic glance. “…Yes. It got a lot worse. I shouldn’t care – I _don’t care_ , but when it’s _every single day_ , and people still cower when I look at them, and yet they whisper about my father, and spread rumours, and talk about what I might have done to you-”

“Me?” Hermione blurted, before she could help herself. “What do you mean?”

He gulped, Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that drew her eye. “Some people think I’ve cursed you. Why else would you defend me?”

Hermione bristled. “How _dare_ they-”

“It’s fine, Granger, it really is-”

“No, it’s not,” she said vehemently. “I’ve half a mind to give the whole bloody school a speech about _gossiping,_ and, and _false rumours-_ ”

He sighed, trying not to smile. “Forget it. I can ignore it. It’s stupid, anyway.”

“Draco,” Hermione said, almost scoldingly. “We have to do something.”

“No, we don’t,” he answered, shrugging her off. “They don’t need to know that I pay them any mind.”

“People can’t change their views if they are never challenged,” she said softly.

There was a long silence, the two of them very small in the expanse of the stairwell. The air was dense, heavy, and it pressed on Hermione’s chest.

“Please come?” she asked gently, after a while, reaching out to touch his arm.

He glanced down at her hand, with an expression that looked like he was drowning in thought, and then swallowed nervously. “Okay.”

She grinned brightly at him. “Then it’s settled. By the way, I heard the theme is ‘yellow’.”

“Ugh,” he groaned. “Is it too late to change my mind?”

“Far too late now,” she declared. She shot him a last, beaming smile, and then turned away to head to the staircase back to the Gryffindor dorm.

She didn’t hear him leave until she was out of eyeshot.

* * *

“Hermione, are you decent?”

Hermione blinked in surprise. It was the following week, and she had been lying on her bed reading, the hangings drawn, the light from her wand the only illumination. It was her favourite place.

“Yes?” she replied uncertainly.

“Then I’m coming in!”

The hangings were abruptly thrown back to reveal a grinning Parvati, who wasted no time in flashing a bright grin and leaping onto the bed with her, unsympathetic to whatever or whoever was in her way.

Hermione shrieked as five foot and three inches of Gryffindor descended on her, laughing uncontrollably.

“Oof! Parvati, you lunatic,” she laughed as she shoved her book to one side and wriggled over to allow her more room. Parvati soon made use of the space and settled herself comfortably down to lie beside her.

“So how’s it going?” she asked casually, as if she hadn’t just performed what was essentially a wrestling move on her dormmate, and the pair dissolved into giggles.

Hermione rubbed her middle. “I was fine until someone decided to rugby tackle me into the mattress,” she complained, and Parvati grinned widely.

“Ah, you’ll recover,” she said nonchalantly, and Hermione giggled again.

“How’s your Wednesday going?”

“Not bad,” answered Parvati, flopping back onto Hermione’s pillow, her black hair fanning out around her. “I had my first fire-call with the mind-healer I told you about this morning.”

“Oh?” exclaimed Hermione rolling onto her side to face her. “How was it?”

“It was okay,” Parvati answered slowly. “A bit weird talking to a stranger about such personal things while I was sat in McGonagall’s fireplace, though.”

Hermione almost giggled. “I’ll bet. Do you think you’ll go again?”

“Definitely,” she replied. “I reckon it’ll be one of those things that gets easier and more natural with time. And, well, I feel like I owe it to Lavender to mourn her properly, process it, you know? I don’t think I can do it on my own. Not amongst all the other stuff.”

Hermione didn’t want to pry, so she reached out and squeezed Parvati’s hand. “It sounds like it’ll be really good for you.”

Parvati nodded, breaking into a soft smile. “Yeah, definitely. Thanks, Hermione.”

“Oh, no worries,” she laughed, and Parvati grinned. “I’ll be here any time you want to talk about it. What else have you been up to?”

“Ugh, well, I tried to make a start on that Charms essay…” started Parvati. “But I had to give up after a bit. Half a foot of parchment on wand movements? No thanks.”

Hermione laughed. “Do you need a hand?”

“Nope,” Parvati answered, popping the ‘p’. “I’ll get there, but thanks! I actually thought I’d come and chat to you because I heard something very _interesting_ about your ferret friend...”

“Oh?” said Hermione, fiddling with her sleeve as she tried not to show how immediately intrigued she was.

“Mm hm. You know how people are always whispering about him in the corridors?”

Hermione was instantly on the alert. “Yes…?” she asked.

“Well, we all know that he usually just ignores them, right? But in the week, Padma said that Anthony said that he answered someone back.”

All traces of disguising her interest went out the window as Hermione sat bolt upright. “What did he say?!”

“Well, apparently it was some sixth year Ravenclaw kid,” Parvati said, pushing herself up on her elbows. “He was mouthing off to some friends, some crap about wondering how Hogwarts could have possibly allowed death eater scum, or something, back into the castle – his words, Padma said, not mine,” she said fervently, seeing the heat in Hermione’s eyes. “And Malfoy span around, put his wand to his neck, and told him that if he ever heard him say anything like that again, he’d show him exactly what kind of scum Hogwarts had allowed back into the castle. With a few extra swear words, I think. Oh, and apparently he punched him too.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open.

“Oh, good,” said Parvati. “That was my reaction too. I’m glad to hear that I’m not completely out of the loop.”

Hermione was at a loss for words. Sure, she’d encouraged him to stand up to the people that spread gossip about him, but _this_? What on earth had he been thinking?

“I can’t _believe_ it,” she grit out, eventually. “All his talk about trying to keep his head down and get by, and then he goes and does something like this?!”

“Hey,” said Parvati, unconcerned. “I think the kid was asking for it.”

“But physical violence? That’s not okay. Christ, when I said he should challenge his bullies, this wasn’t what I meant!”

“Ooh,” said Parvati, eyes lighting up with intrigue. “You mean _you_ had something to do with this?”

Hermione frowned. “Maybe. Yes? Gosh, I don’t know. The point is, punching people is _not_ the right way to go about trying to show people he’s changed.”

Parvati held her hands up. “Hey, you’re telling me. It’s as if he’s _trying_ to prove their point.”

Hermione huffed with frustration and flopped back onto the bed.

“At least punching someone is a very muggle way to go about things,” Parvati mused. Hermione tried to laugh, but only managed a frustrated-sounding exhale.

“What? This fixing-up thing not working as well as you hoped?” she commented dryly.

“The thing is,” said Hermione, burying her head in Parvati’s side, “I really thought it had been.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for following me along with this story! I can't thank you enough for all the comments and kudos; they keep me going and make my day every single time! <3  
> Next chapter will be out on Wednesday - it marks the official half-way point! And with it, some turning points for our duo...


	10. "This Whole Thing About Draco"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another TW for alcohol consumption here :)

Hermione could scarcely believe that an entire term had been and gone. Fourteen weeks of classes, of banquets, of Hogsmeade trips. Twelve weeks of the Fixer Upper Club. Of growing to know Draco Malfoy.

Only to have everything she thought she knew about him collapse inwards three days before the holidays.

She had been half hoping that Parvati’s tale of Draco’s wrongdoings had been exaggerated somehow, but when she set foot in the great hall the next morning, and it seemed that every other student was discussing the now infamous Malfoy altercation, she was forced to conclude it was true. The Ravenclaw student involved had gone rather notably quiet about the whole ordeal, but that didn't exactly stop the rumour mill turning with whispered glee. Draco Malfoy losing his cool and punching someone in the face was, apparently, the most exciting gossip of the year.

Hermione had refused to look Draco's way over breakfast, at a loss for what to do or say, but it had left her with a sour taste in her mouth that didn’t go awfully well with marmalade. Unfortunately, as all aftertastes did, her unwillingness to face him and her subsequent guilt lingered all day, and the next, and by Friday - the last day of term and the night of the Hufflepuff party - her shame was following her around like a storm cloud. It was cruel of her, she knew, to be avoiding him when he had no one else to talk to about what had happened, but every time she caught sight of his blond hair in the hallways, or saw him sat at their table in the library, something in her stomach would clench and she'd turn on her heel as if she had somewhere else rather more important to be at that very moment.

She found herself pinning her hopes on the Christmas party - perhaps somewhere amongst the joviality and holiday spirit, she would find some idea of how to go about talking to someone that she apparently didn't understand at all.

One could only hope.

In contrast to Hermione’s inner turmoil, Hogwarts was alive with the buzz of the impending holidays. Crumbling bits of rubble had been decorated with tinsel, Christmas trees adorned the great hall, and Hermione had spent half an hour in the library last week mapping out the locations of the castle’s sprigs of enchanted mistletoe, in order to ensure she would never get caught unawares.

It felt like this year, the castle had thrown itself into celebrating its return to the school it was always meant to be. The joy and giddiness of the festive season dusted the entire school population like snowflakes, and in their last lesson, McGonagall had even offered them a crisp ‘happy holidays’ before issuing them with four essays to be completed by January. 

After dinner (a chaotic, noisy affair, filled with laughter and intermittent carol singing), Hermione couldn’t quite bring herself to go back to her dorm and pack, so she told Ron and Harry to carry on without her, and set off instead to wander the castle.

It was astonishing really, the changes of the last term. The vast majority of the most lived-in areas of the castle were practically back to normal now, with the exception of the odd cordoned-off alcove. Once attentions had been turned to the astronomy tower, which as far as Hermione was aware was the last section of the main building to be fixed, the south wing would be the only place left untouched (or so the professors thought) since the war. As she wandered through corridors and staircases, gazing at the portraits and tapestries she passed, she marvelled at the school’s ability to heal.

And, she supposed, her own.

* * *

When she could put it off no longer, she finally returned to the dormitory, realised she was running late, and went searching frantically for something yellow to wear. An initial search revealed nothing, and so she turned her attention to the pitiful pile of clothes at the bottom of her trunk that she had previously relegated to ‘throw outs’. She managed to locate a yellow blouse that was a little on the small side, with a red stain on the inside of the collar, and with a few irritated jabs of her wand, managed to make it look at least semi-fit for purpose. Her denim jacket would hide the remains of the stain, she hoped.

In her hurry to locate a pair of dark jeans to accompany it, she managed to knock a glass of water off her bedside table, thoroughly drenching her. With a curse to the skies, she set the glass to rights, turned, and stumbled over the jeans she had left lying on the floor.

After a half-hearted attempt at a drying spell that had the unfortunate side effect of puffing her hair out to gravity-defying proportions, she began rooting through her bedside table to find her makeup bag, which when located, she promptly dropped twice. 

At that moment she became aware of the sound of giggling behind her and turned around to see Ginny and Parvati almost doubled up in stitches in the doorway. Despite her embarrassment, Hermione couldn’t help but laugh in mortification, burying her head in her hands.

“What’s got you all riled up?” Ginny teased, popping a Fizzing Whizzbee in her mouth and settling down on the carpet beside her. Hermione bit her lip in amusement as the cross-legged girl began to float a few centimetres off the ground, the sweet taking instant effect.

“Nothing,” she replied. “It’s just one of those days-”

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain _Slytherin_ you’ve been avoiding, would it?” asked Parvati knowingly.

Ginny’s eyebrows quirked in interest, coming back down to the floor with a bump. “Ooh, our resident _bad boy._ ”

Hermione huffed. “No, it _wouldn’t_ have anything to do with him,” she said, rather sternly. “And if it did, it wouldn’t matter, because I wouldn’t know what to say to him anyway.”

The other two shared a look. “That’s a lot of wouldn’ts,” said Ginny.

Hermione yanked a comb through her hair, scowling. “I thought I knew where I stood with him, you know, that we were… friends. We’d do homework together and chat in muggle studies-”

“ _You_ talk during class?” Parvati said. Ginny shot her a pointed look, fed her a Fizzing Whizzbee, and motioned for Hermione to continue.

“I guess I just thought I had him figured out,” she sighed, as they began to float again. “And I was encouraging him to stand up for himself when people said horrible things, you know, just a little bit, but I would never have expected him to go and punch someone! So, well, I guess you’re right. I’ve been avoiding him.”

“And now you miss him?” Parvati teased, around a mouthful of sherbet.

“I didn’t say that!” Hermione protested.

Ginny reached out a hand, a Whizzbee in her upturned palm. “It’s fine to miss him, Hermione.”

“I don’t know,” she grumbled, taking the sweet gratefully. “I don’t think it’s that. It’s, well, I invited him to the Hufflepuff party later. So I think… I think really I’m just dreading coming face to face with him tonight, and having to work out what on earth you say to someone who’s done something you can’t condone.”

“Hey,” said Ginny, nudging her. Still levitating, Hermione wobbled slightly and grabbed onto the post of her bed to steady herself. “Ron does loads of things you don’t condone, and you’re _dating_ him. You just have to talk to him, and he always apologises eventually. Malfoy’s your study buddy, not your husband. The stakes are lower. It’ll be easier to work through, right?”

Hermione blinked, plopping back down on the floor. “I suppose you’re right…”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” said Ginny. “But I don’t think he would have done it for no reason.”

“And I’m sure if you ask him why he did it, he’ll tell you. It sounds like you’re close,” said Parvati kindly.

Hermione nodded. She didn’t feel ready to admit to the seed of guilt in her chest, a whisper that perhaps it was _her_ fault he had stood up for himself in such a violent manner.

“So should I just be... normal with him?” she asked.

“Normal,” agreed Parvati. “But call him out too.”

“Er, right,” said Hermione.

“Yeah,” enthused Ginny. “You can tell him off a bit without going full howler.”

“How DARE you punch that child, if you put another TOE out of line I’ll never help you with your Muggle Studies homework AGAIN,” cried Parvati, in a scarily accurate impression of Ginny’s mother. Gobsmacked, Ginny crunched down on the Fizzing Whizzbee in her mouth and shot a foot up in the air; leaving Parvati and Hermione cackling breathlessly in her wake.

* * *

It was a veritable clan of Gryffindors that met the girls in the common room when they arrived from their dorms that evening. Every single student from the upper two years had turned out in force to descend on the Hufflepuff common room, laden with drinks and snacks and galleons to contribute to the lash.

Everyone had found some way to represent the ‘yellow’ theme, ranging from belts, to hats, to hair adornments. Luna had dressed herself from head to toe entirely in colours ranging from lemon to mustard.

Hermione spotted some rebellious streaks of red amongst the group, clearly those that wanted to keep their house patriotism, but even those students still sported their dutiful bits of yellow.

Harry, however, was clearly dubious. “Hey, Gin, didn’t you hear the theme?” he called. “Where’s your yellow?”

Hermione bit her lip, knowing exactly what Ginny had in mind.

And with plenty of smugness and very little modesty, Ginny lifted the hem of her shirt to reveal a flash of bright yellow underneath. Harry’s eyes went as round as saucers. “And guess what,” she added, leaning in. “It’s a matching set.”

Hermione fought to contain her laughter as the Chosen One blinked at her as if he was about to short-circuit. She pulled a grinning Ginny away from him and jingled the galleons they had clubbed together for the Hufflepuff lash. “I do hope you’re planning to stick around long enough to get your money’s worth,” she teased.

Ginny grinned wryly. “If I disappear for longer than twenty minutes, you can drink mine for me.”

Parvati appeared over Hermione’s shoulder, raising her eyebrows.

“Alright,” relented Ginny. “Fifteen minutes. And you can share it with Parvati.”

Parvati beamed.

* * *

The Hufflepuff common room was larger than Hermione had expected, and its sweeping circular wall was adorned with porthole-like windows, plants, and portraits full of comfortably-dressed, contended-looked people who watched the proceedings with knowing smiles.

Ernie MacMillan was every bit the pompous host, Justin Finch-Fletchley his excitable, eager-to-please companion. Hermione was curious about where on earth both of them had managed to buy sunshine-yellow dress robes until she spotted a navy-blue patch under Ernie’s armpit that gave itself away as a missed spot in a transfiguration attempt. Ernie graciously accepted the galleons from those hoping for a share of the lash and beckoned them over to the centre of the room, where the largest cauldron Hermione had ever seen was stationed.

Inside was a veritable concoction of what looked to be a huge number of different drinks. Hermione could smell the sweetness of pumpkin juice, the acrid botanicals of gin, plenty of the kick of Firewhiskey, and she was fairly sure there must be a whole host of other ingredients too. Frankly, it sounded disgusting. But when Ernie presented everyone with goblets of the stuff, and Hermione took a careful sip, she was astonished to find that it was perfectly drinkable. The sweetness of the juice melted into the darker heat of the stronger spirits, and as potent as Hermione knew it most likely was, it was as easy to drink as butterbeer.

Definitely something to be careful of then, she thought.

Ron, who was wearing the most horrible mustard-coloured dress shirt Hermione had ever seen, knocked back two glasses in quick succession, turning to beam at her. She smiled fondly at him, and then he was off, holding his goblet aloft as he called out something to Seamus, who had already made himself comfortable near the fireplace.

They’d barely been there five minutes, and the atmosphere was already high. It was a different kind of feeling to Hermione’s birthday party – it was more settled, more at ease. The last party had been giddy and excitable, the delirium of being back at Hogwarts rousing everyone into a fever-like state. This time, the air was warm and soothing, a kind of steamy comfort settling around them. It was warm and entrancing, and Hermione felt almost as if the air she was breathing had the same makeup as the drink in her hand.

And so while her birthday party had been giggly and chaotic, this one felt… intoxicating.

* * *

In all other respects, the party progressed fairly similarly to the last. Hermione found herself locked in a game of _Oddment_ with a bunch of other eighth years; a sort of hybrid of snap and poker that resulted in lots of hands slapping on tables, and shrieks of laughter as they all fought to be the last one standing.

Many similar games were going on around the room, some rather innocent, some less so. There was an empty bottle of butterbeer being spun around on the floor somewhere, and a small, giddy part of Hermione longed to go over and join, but wasn’t sure if she would be able to follow through on all of the dares being handed out in _that_ game.

There were many other games ongoing that didn’t seem to need anything more than the people involved. Silly chant-like songs, games of sharing secrets, of whispers and hypotheticals and great, loud roars of laughter.

Goblets and goblets of lash were drunk, and yet the enormous cauldron never seemed to get any emptier. There was music playing, though Hermione couldn’t work out where from, and the lights were warm and amber. All in all, it was an evening of saturated content. It was… intimate.

When the game wrapped up, Padma declared the undeniable victor, Hermione found herself content just to sit drink and watch and listen, giggling at the conversations around her and weighing in on such important discussions as ‘would you rather have fingers for toes, or toes for fingers?’. Outwardly, she grinned and laughed at all the right moments, but the back of her mind was roiling with discontent about Draco.

Already that night, she’d heard a great deal of gossip, a great many allusions to his altercation earlier in the week. And interestingly, she’d also overheard a discussion about how attractive two seventh years happened to think he was, but Hermione had deftly ignored that conversation. In every sense, Draco Malfoy was a hot topic that night.

And so when Hermione noticed a large number of heads turn all at once to the entrance of the common room, she knew exactly who she would spot having just found their way in.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him enter, watched him nod at Ernie and Justin, who were clearly a little unsettled by his presence, but still took his galleon and offered him a drink. He was wearing a smart white shirt with a daisy yellow pocket square, and it was this little patch of colour that Hermione couldn’t help her eyes from following around the room as he wandered this way and that, clearly searching for something. Or, in truth, someone.

She shrank into the sofa slightly. Either side of her, Anthony and Dean were debating whether it would be more favourable to have one eye or three, and had been doing so for approximately the last twenty minutes, so there wasn’t much engagement to be found there. She had hoped for another minute or two of anonymity, but Draco’s eyes found her very quickly, and at a quirk of his eyebrows, Hermione huffed and got to her feet.

Better get this over with.

Wobbling minutely for a moment (the lash was _definitely_ a lot stronger than it tasted), she made her way over.

Draco grinned. “So I was thinking-”

All plans of rationality and calmness went out of the window. She wanted _answers_. Hermione grabbed a fistful of his shirt, pulled him straight back out of the common room entrance he’d just arrived through, and dragged him against the wall a short way down the corridor. “You,” she demanded, “have some explaining to do.”

His eyes lowered to her hand on his chest, which she quickly dropped in embarrassment. “What, er, is there to explain?” he asked distractedly.

Hermione frowned at him. “Did you, or did you not, punch someone in the face this week?”

A blush of pink bloomed into existence on his cheeks. “Well…”

“Draco!” she exclaimed. “I’d been hoping it was just a rumour! How could you?!”

“You were the one who told me to stand up for myself!”

“You can stand up for yourself without committing assault!”

He scowled and turned his face away, but Hermione knew him too well by this point. “What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all? So you’re not going to defend your actions?”

“What good would it do?” He folded his arms. “He called me death eater scum, I punched him, that’s the truth.”

Hermione frowned. “That’s it? After all your efforts to avoid conflict this year? You heard somebody call you a death eater, and instead of reminding them about all the trials you went through, all the pardons you’ve been issued… you decided to punch him in the face?”

Draco set his jaw. “Yes.”

“Well that’s ridiculous!”

“I thought you’d understand,” he muttered.

“Really?! Draco, surely you don’t need me to tell you that’s not okay?! I thought you wanted people to see that you’ve changed! If you don’t want people to forever judge you by that one horrible mistake you made when you were sixteen, you need to find a better way to challenge opinions than going around punching anyone who calls you something as ridiculous as _death eater scum_ -”

“He didn’t just call me death eater scum, Hermione!” Draco burst out.

She paused, searching his face. “He- he didn’t?”

Draco’s jaw worked silently. “No,” he said eventually. “He called me a piece of death eater scum… and said that I’m manipulating your ‘torture-weakened mind’ into defending me.”

The air flew out of Hermione’s lungs. “My _what_?!”

“He started going on and on about how people don’t ever fully recover from the _cruciatus_ ," he said bitterly. "Saying they become weak and helpless. He said that I must be taking advantage of that, and-”

He cut himself off.

“And what?”

“No, it was a sick joke, you don’t want to hear it-”

Hermione glared at him. “ _Draco Malfoy_.”

He fidgeted uncomfortably. “Fine. Well, er, not in so many words, but he basically suggested that I would be able to do anything I wanted with you.”

Hermione blinked up at him.

He wouldn’t meet her eyes. He was Occluding again, she was sure of it. “Anything… sexual,” he admitted.

“Oh,” she said. A jolt ran up her spine. “ _Oh_. And so that’s, er, that’s…”

“When I punched him? Yes,” said Draco.

“Oh.” The gears were spinning in Hermine’s mind. “So you didn’t… It was when he insulted me that you… _Oh_.”

“Are you happy now?”

There was a soft silence. The tiniest fragment of a smirk started to form at the corner of his mouth, and with every passing moment that Hermione tried not to show what she was thinking on her face, he only began to look more and more pleased with himself.

“Now look,” Hermione said uncertainly, shifting from one foot to the other. “I don’t believe in violence.”

“You did when it was my nose, in third year.”

She eyed him. “You were being a right snotty prick and you know it.”

He quirked his lip but wisely remained silent.

“I don’t agree with it. And, you know, we’re not in the 1700s, so it’s not that my honour needs defending… But with that said… I _suppose_ … I appreciate you knocking some sense into someone spewing such vile things around the corridors.” She looked down at her feet. “With any luck, he’ll keep quiet from now on, and the younger students won’t have to hear it. So, er… thank you. And I’m..." She took a breath. "I'm sorry I judged you so quickly.”

Draco shrugged. “It’s fine."

“Hey,” she said softly, stepping closer and placing a hand on his arm. “Don’t brush off my thank yous.”

“I’ve only just gotten comfortable with sorrys,” he joked.

“Well, time to get more comfortable,” she continued, more seriously. “Thank you, Draco.”

He met her eyes properly this time, and there they stood, face to face, Hermione’s palm resting on the curve of his upper arm. And she wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, or the alcohol, or a mix of the two, but she felt as if his gaze was pulling her closer.

“You’ve, er, got a stain,” he said, and reached out absent-mindedly to finger the discoloured patch of her collar. His hand brushed her clavicle, and Hermione’s breath caught in her mouth. She swallowed thickly. And there, with his hand on her shirt, skin brushing skin, so close that Hermione could see the flecks of darker grey in his irises, the lines of his mouth, the tiny little out-of-place hairs in his eyebrows… she realised something.

She was attracted to Draco Malfoy.

Fuck.

* * *

Five minutes later, Hermione was standing by the cauldron, scooping up goblet after goblet of lash in an effort to push all thoughts of Draco’s eyes and mouth and skin to the back of her mind where it belonged, sensibility be damned.

That was how Parvati found her. She immediately clucked disapprovingly in a manner rather becoming of a mother hen and steered her away. “Conversation not go well?” she asked.

Hermione made a face. “No, it went fine.”

“Er, Hermione, you’ve knocked back three glasses of booze in the last two minutes. That doesn’t _sound_ fine.” 

Hermione huffed, looking down at the floor. She was wearing a pair of blue ballet flats, and she found herself unable to take her eyes off them for a moment.

“It really was fine, I’m afraid there’s no drama to report. It’s all forgiven,” she sighed.

“So then why are you drinking like your life depends on it?”

“I…” Hermione tailed off. Now that the realisation had hit her, it felt like she needed to get it off her chest or risk explosion. “Okay, I’m going to tell you something, but you have to promise not to repeat to anyone else.”

Parvati’s eyes lit up. “I promise. Absolutely.”

Hermione’s eyes flitted over the crowd, making sure they wouldn’t be overheard, and beckoned Parvati over to a bench at the side of the room. “I realised that I… that…”

Parvati placed a calming hand over Hermione’s jiggling knee, and she sighed.

“I realised that he’s, er, kind of… kind of attractive.”

Parvati let out her breath in a gust, threw her head back, and did the last thing Hermione expected her to. She laughed. “Well, of course he is!” she crowed. Hermione looked down at the floor and Parvati took her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to laugh at you. It’s just… did you _really_ only just realise that tonight?”

“Well I-” Hermione cut herself off. “I don’t know. I guess I was always too preoccupied being either his enemy or his friend to consider that.”

“Mm. Okay, well, let me inform you: he’s always been attractive. You know, objectively. And if it weren’t for the whole Death Eater thing, he’d be fighting the girls away,” grinned Parvati. “It’s completely fine for you to think he’s attractive. You don’t need to feel guilty – it doesn’t mean anything.”

Hermione smiled in spite of herself. “I guess… I just feel like I’m not _allowed_ to think it. You know? I’ve got Ron, and, well, Draco is… Draco. I just... shouldn’t be thinking it.” She sighed and laid her head on Parvati’s shoulder. “Have you ever felt like that?”

And to her surprise, Parvati smiled a small, sad smile. “Well… Yes, actually," she admitted. "I have.” 

Hermione sat up. “Really?!”

“Really.” Parvati let out a deep breath. “Can it be my turn to tell you secret?”

Hermione nodded fervently.

And Parvati tucked a long strand of shiny black hair behind her ear. “It was Lavender.”

Despite the noise all around them, it felt to Hermione as if the entire rest of the world had gone quiet.

“You mean you’re-?”

“Yeah,” Parvati sighed. “I like girls. But mostly, er… I liked Lavender.”

Hermione placed a tender hand on Parvati’s knee and squeezed comfortingly.

“Right from the first day on the train, you know,” she continued. “She opened the door to my compartment, beamed at me, stuck out her hand to shake, and asked me if I was a Virgo.”

The two girls laughed softly.

“I loved her,” whispered Parvati eventually, in a small, broken voice. “And we were the _best_ of friends. We were so close. You know sometimes… I get scared that no one will ever quite _get_ me the way she did?”

There was a pause. “So I kept quiet. For seven years. And even though I know it wouldn’t have changed anything, I wish that just once, I’d been brave enough to tell her. You know, without fear. Just tell her I loved her with no agenda or expectation, just to tell her, because it was the truth.”

“I’m so sorry, Parvati,” Hermione whispered. She folded her in a hug, and the two girls clung together, much like they had right at the start of term, united in love and loss. The music thumped on, soft and warm and pounding as if it were deep within Hermione’s bones. She had had no idea about Parvati’s feelings for Lavender. But it was like it was all starting to make sense, starting to slot together.

Eventually, Parvati broke away and offered a brave grin, wiping at her eye. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cry on your blouse-”

“Don’t even think about apologising,” Hermione sniffed, smiling wetly at her. “Thank you for telling me.”

Parvati’s eyes were full of gratitude. “Thank _you_.”

“You know,” said Hermione, exhaling softly and brushing her hair away from her face with a grin. “In the whole context of things… you’ve made this whole thing about Draco seem just a little bit silly, really.”

“Not that I’m trying to intrude,” said someone. “But what whole thing?”

Hermione’s head snapped up to see Draco himself standing over them with a good-natured smirk on his face, and she blushed terribly. “I-”

“Never you mind,” teased Parvati, standing up and shoving him good-naturedly. “Right, you two, I feel a game of _Hepzibah_ coming on. Are you ready to drink?”

Hermione took one look at Draco, smiling effervescently at her, and gulped. “You bet,” she declared, a little breathlessly. She stood up, and all at once, the goblets of lash hit her all at the same time, catching her off-balance and making her stumble into Draco, who froze. _Well_ , she thought. _This was going to be fun_.

* * *

It _was_ fun.

 _Hepzibah_ was a game that involved taking it in turns to fabricate absurd scenarios using some rather unusual playing cards, and then populating them with names of people ranging from Celestina Warbeck to Professor Sinistra. Hermione’s forgiveness seemed to have restored Draco’s badge of approval, and so even though there were a few dubious glances, he ended up sandwiched between Luna and Ernie, throwing himself into the game with every bit of enthusiasm and humour as everyone else.

Clearly it was a popular game, because more and more people joined them as they played, the invented scenarios becoming more and more outlandish. The lash went down far too easily as the night wore on, and Hermione found herself becoming increasingly giddy. It was the sort of giddy that really should have warned her to stop drinking, but something about having Draco sat directly across from her, smirking at his cards when he thought no one was looking, and grinning at her when he thought she was, made Hermione forget.

The more time wore on, the less and less she thought of the notion that she might be drinking too much. As she laughed uproariously with the rest of the year groups, the alcohol fizzled in her veins like static, and her body hummed with joy. Draco smiled at her, his eyes dark over the top of his cards.

 _Intoxicating_. 

Hermione took another sip of lash, choked, and coughed it back up again.

Eventually, the game led to a point at which Hermione was in danger of her own name being inserted into a story involved Professor Trelawney, the muggle prime minister, and a dark room.

Deciding that was probably a fairly good sign that it was time to go, she got to her feet.

It was quite the surprise then, when the alcohol in her body rose up on her in one giant wave, tilting her vision sideways and filling her with nausea. Jerking against it, she slipped to one side and twisted her ankle, thudding down onto the carpet like a sack of potatoes.

There was a shocked silence.

Hermione blinked at the other players, then started to giggle.

“Bloody hell, Hermione!” laughed Ginny, rushing over to join her. “Are you alright?”

“Couldn’t be better,” said Hermione cheerfully, finding that her words were running together a little. She giggled again. “Maybe I should stop drinking.”

Draco was there suddenly, on her other side. She found herself being lifted to her feet and realised she was having significant difficulty supporting her own bodyweight. “Good idea,” he said, smirking amusedly at her. “Do you want me to walk you back? I was about to head home anyway.”

Hermione beamed. “Thank you!”

“Alright, calm down, I’ve not offered to carry you over burning coals,” said Draco, blushing. “Right, where’s your Weasley?”

Hermione frowned, pointing a thumb at Ginny, who was standing next to her.

“No, the other one,” smirked Draco, and Ginny stuck her tongue out at him. He grinned. “Oh, there he is. Come on Granger, let’s go say goodbye. I don’t trust him not to hex me if we disappear without warning.”

Hermione stuck her wand between her teeth and sagged gratefully into his side, definitely not trusting her legs to support her without help. Draco flushed visibly, but placed a tentative hand between her shoulder blades to support her.

“Er, Weasley?”

Ron had been playing an improvised game of beer pong with Dean, and he turned around reluctantly at the sound of Draco’s voice, his face immediately twisting into displeasure at the sight of them. “Hermione? What’s wrong?!”

“Hello Ron,” said Hermione brightly, from the semi-crouched position she had been forced to adopt in order to remain on her feet.

“I thought you’d probably hex me if I left with your girlfriend without telling you, so I wanted to let you know that I’m walking her back to the tower,” explained Draco.

Ron looked incredibly suspicious and attempted to take Hermione’s arm. “Why you? _I_ can walk her back.”

“It’s fine,” chirped Hermione, pulling away from him, slipping through his fingers like sand. “You’re having fun! Stay. Draco was leaving anyway. Don’t worry, he’s a perfect gentleman! He defended my honour!”

Ron looked at her as if she’d just transfigured herself into a cactus. “How much have you had to drink?”

Hermione looked down to count on her fingers, wobbling precariously. “One, two, three-four, five, seven, eighty-nine-”

“Too much, probably,” summarised Draco. “It’ll be easier to get her back safely when she’s conscious, which I doubt she will be for much longer.” Hermione frowned but stumbled over her own feet and crashed into him, yanking on his arm for support and promptly forgetting indignation.

Ron stepped protectively towards her. “It’s fine Malfoy, I’ll take her back-”

“No, Ron! Stay! Enjoy your game!” insisted Hermione. She smiled widely. “I’ll be _fine_ ,” she assured him, and patted his chest for good measure. “I promise.”

Ron regarded her for a minute, and Hermione stepped forward to quiet him with a hug. “You know, if you waited for me, we could go to bed… _together_?” he murmured quietly into her curls. Draco coughed awkwardly. Ah. Not quiet enough.

Hermione drew back, folding her arms in reproach. “Uh uh. Drunk people can’t give consent,” she admonished.

Ron flushed immediately red to the tips of his ears. “Yes, I know-” he said hurriedly.

“So I can’t say yes.”

“Right-”

“Because I’m drunk,” she finished, helpfully. “So no, Ron Weasley, I won’t.” She beamed, feeling rather proud of herself. “And you can jolly well stay here and finish your beer ping. Pong.”

Draco stifled a laugh.

Ron gave a helpless sigh. “ _Please_ get back to the tower in one piece,” he implored her. And, addressing Draco; “I’m holding you personally responsible, ferret.”

Hermione patted him away. “Okay, okay, goodnight, sleep tight! Don’t let the bugs bed. Good pong luck!”

Draco looked at her as if he was trying desperately not to laugh, but managed to hold it together long enough for Ron to give a final discontented sigh and turn back to his game. Beaming, Hermione leant her full body weight against Draco’s side. “Thank you, Draco. Hey. Is Draco short for Dracula? You look a bit vampire-ey.”

Draco blinked at her.

“Oh, sorry, that was rude,” Hermione corrected herself. She allowed herself a giggle. “Funny though.”

“Alright Zonko,” he teased, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Are you ready to go?”

She grinned by way of response, placed one unsteady foot in front of the other, and off they went.

* * *

“Do you often lecture people about consent?” Draco asked wryly, once they’d left the common room.

“Only my favourites,” she answered cheekily, hobbling lop-sidedly down the corridor. “Ha! I couldn’t do that if my mind really _was_ ‘ _torture-weakened’_ , now could I?!”

“I guess not,” said Draco, amused.

“Ron would have a _much_ easier time trying to get me into bed if that was the case,” she snorted.

She felt Draco’s body tense beside her. Oh dear. Had she said too much?

“Is that right?” he asked uncertainly, his face drawn into an Occluded mask.

“Mm,” she answered, waving at a girl in one of the portraits they passed. “Mind you, it’d probably be quite nice to stop overthinking for a bit. Maybe I’d be able to shut off the itch!”

“The… itch?” asked Draco immediately, as if he hadn’t been able to help himself.

“The itch!” insisted Hermione. Surely, he knew what she was talking about? Right? “You know, when you’re with someone, and things start to heat up, and then all of a sudden you get that itch up your spine, that horrible, prickly feeling that makes you want to run away,” she explained matter-of-factly. “I don’t know how people can stand to put up with it, I really don’t.”

Draco blinked, and there was a pregnant pause before he attempted a response, jaw working furiously. “Er, Hermione. You’re, ah, definitely too drunk to be talking about this right now, but, er… I don’t think you’re _supposed_ to be feeling things like that…”

Hermione froze, eyes widening in horror. “Is there something wrong with me?!”

“No!” he cried immediately. “No, of course not.”

She settled, and they walked in silence for a few moments longer.

“You know, it just sounds like if you’re that uncomfortable, then maybe… there might be something’s not quite right with the er… the situation?” Draco suggested awkwardly.

Hermione looked down at her feet in their pretty blue ballet flats.

“Hermione…” said Draco carefully. They had slowed to a stop now. “He, er… He never… _forces_ you to do anything you don’t want to do, right?”

“Oh, God, no!” cried Hermione. She swung to face him, hands clenching in his shirt. “No!”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” breathed Draco. “Okay. I’m glad we’ve established that so I never have to think about you and Weasley ever again-”

“But sometimes I think it’s what I want, and then…” Hermione dropped her arms. His hands were almost brushing hers. “There was this one time I let him go further,” she said. A pause. “And, afterwards… it was like… my body rejected it. I couldn’t stop staring at the ceiling, you know, there was this one tiny patch of threadbare fabric, and I… I felt really… really… far away.”

It was silent. Her words echoed between them, a hair’s breadth apart. He looked at her like he was looking _into_ her, his beautiful grey eyes, the lift of his eyebrows, the falling open of his lips-

Hermione wanted-

_She wanted-_

And she rushed at him, burying her face in his chest and winding her arms around his waist, desperate for comfort.

He took a shocked step back, but then his arms lifted, he wrapped them around her middle, and against the wall of the staircase on the fourth floor, Hermione’s heart pounding against his chest, he held her tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this chapter so much!!! I hope you do too <3  
> As always, huge thanks for the comments and kudos, they are to my writing process what super stars are to Mario.  
> See you for the next chapter on Saturday!


	11. 'String Beans, the Lot of You'

“Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

“Oh, come on Hermione, I doubt it was that bad-”

“I drank more than _double_ what I should have done, I gave Ron a lecture about consent, I started talking to Draco about my sex life, and I passed out in the common room! What about that sounds good to you?!”

“Don’t forget the puke,” said Ginny helpfully.

“The _what_!?”

“I’m joking, I’m joking, sorry, you didn’t throw up. Although how you managed that, I have no idea. It’s a miracle, really.”

“Small comfort, Gin,” said Parvati. “She’d probably be feeling a lot better now if she _had_ thrown up last night.”

“I can’t believe this,” Hermione lamented, ignoring them both. “Why didn’t anyone _stop_ me?”

“Because you’re Hermione Granger,” Ginny replied.

It was the infamous morning after, and Hermione was tucked up in her bed with Crookshanks on her lap, feeling incredibly sorry for herself, while Parvati and Ginny lounged on her duvet, munching on every-flavour beans with the smugness of two people who had known their limits and woken up hangover-free.

Hermione was not so lucky.

The Hogwarts Express was leaving in two hours, and Hermione felt anything _but_ ready to spend all day on a train. “I’m so embarrassed,” she moaned, covering her face with her hands.

“It’s _fine_ ,” insisted Ginny. “Ron loves you, he’ll forgive you. And I doubt Malfoy could give a gnome’s arse about your sex life, so I wouldn’t worry about that front either. As for waking up in the common room, admittedly, that is a bit embarrassing, but at least we found you first.”

“Yeah, after Dennis Creevey-” started Parvati, before Ginny shushed her.

“Look,” she said. “You’ve not got that much to pack at all. You can just lob it in your trunk and carry Crooks down by hand. Why don’t you get some more sleep, I’ll find a hangover spell, and we’ll wake you in an hour?”

Hermione looked besottedly at the two of them. “You are both angels in living form,” she declared.

“Yeah we know, we know,” said Parvati fondly. She hopped off the bed and sent the duvet covers flying up to Hermione’s chin with a flick of her wand. “Sleep tight, you little boozer.”

Hermione hoped that she was able to mumble a ‘goodnight’ before she nodded off, but the tiredness descended on her so rapidly and so completely that she couldn’t be entirely sure.

* * *

As it happened, Hermione’s nap didn’t go quite to plan. Instead of being woken calmly by Ginny an hour later, a rather large owl swooped in through the dormitory window with little preamble and dropped a letter directly on her face. Hermione jolted awake in a blind panic and Crookshanks let out a yowl, leaping onto the floor and running to hide underneath Parvati’s bed.

Realising that there was no threat other than the intense yellow gaze of the owl now perched at the foot of her bed, Hermione sat up slowly, pulse racing, and tried to blink herself into awareness. Was it… Draco’s owl?

It took her several tries to open the envelope, but she eventually managed to pull the parchment free.

‘One last club meeting before Christmas?’

Hermione considered. She had barely an hour before the train left. She still hadn’t packed. She was hungover, still in her pyjamas, and hadn’t yet had breakfast.

She wanted to go.

* * *

She met Draco, as always, in the South wing. Hermione felt her face light up when she saw him, and she threw her hands bashfully in her pockets.

“Recovered?” he asked with a smirk.

She cringed. “Not entirely... Listen, I’m so, so sorry for being… whatever I was last night. I drank just… far too much. I’m really sorry.”

He brushed it off with a shy smile. “You were fine.”

“I wasn’t,” she said, softer. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with the things I said, and then leaping on you, and I… I’m really sorry. I er, don’t remember saying goodbye, but I can’t imagine I was able to thank you at the time, so… Thank you.”

He bit his lip, cheeks colouring. “It took a while to get up the tower, but I managed to get you into the common room, and then you, er, fell asleep pretty quickly on the sofa, and er, well, I didn’t want to wake you so, yeah.”

Hermione blushed furiously. “Thank you.”

“Selfish reasons,” he said, and she laughed, not entirely sure what he meant but amused all the same.

They began to walk together, no need for flares in this part of the corridor that they’d walked a hundred times before. Every classroom they passed unfurled another petal of pride in Hermione’s chest, pride in herself, pride in them. Together they’d repaired, and fixed, and sealed, and replaced, and seeing it all together in the daylight was more of an emotional experience than she had anticipated.

Together they had built walls.

As they walked, Hermione realised that her worries from the night before now felt silly and unfounded. She was an adult now, for goodness’ sake. Surely, she could cope with finding another man attractive. She had no reason to be scared of it. It was human nature, right? It would just require some careful thinking. And God knew, if there was anything that Hermione was good at, it was that.

Besides, she reasoned, the holidays were coming up. She wouldn’t see Draco for several weeks, so the distance would probably do her good. It would cool off, they’d remain friends, and things with Ron would… eventually… progress.

“Are you getting the train?” she asked Draco, after a while.

“No,” he answered simply. “I’m staying here.”

She nodded, not wanting to pry. “I’ll write to you.”

He blushed. “Not that I don’t appreciate the thought, but I’m sure you’ll be far too busy for that. I can’t imagine a Christmas with the Weasleys is ever dull.”

“That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said about them,” she teased.

He harrumphed and she laughed again. She felt weightless, timeless, as if the south wing was their own little perfect world where the universe stopped and breathed for a moment. She turned to face him.

“I’m going to miss this,” she said, softly.

It was like he was trying to suppress a smile, because a dimple winked into existence at the side of his mouth. “Don’t go getting all Hufflepuff on me, Granger,” he murmured.

“Alright, grumpy,” she teased. “I know you’re going to miss me too.”

He scoffed. “Like a hole in the head.”

“Still counts,” she chirped, skipping sideways and into a classroom they hadn’t yet explored. She sent a flurry of contact flares into it, watching as hidden spells roared to life before them. Draco came to stand shoulder to shoulder with her in the doorway.

“We’ve got lots more to do next term,” he said.

“Mm.” Hermione turned to face him, wand stilling for a moment, unable to hide her smile. “I can’t wait, can you?”

Draco went pink.

* * *

Molly Weasley was in her element as she welcomed Ron, Ginny, and her other adopted children into the Burrow. They’d apparated from King’s Cross, despite Arthur insisting he’d come to escort them, which meant that an extra few minutes of motherly fussing were required as they filed in through the doorway one by one.

“Hermione, dear! Oh, I’m so glad you could come to stay with us, come in, come in! Goodness, have the portion sizes halved since we were there? You’re all string beans, the lot of you!”

Hermione beamed up at her as the older witch folded her in a hug. “Thank you for having me for Christmas, Molly.”

“Oh, goodness, any time, dear,” she said with a fond smile and a pat to the cheek. “Go on, in you get. Dinner’s on the stove when you’ve unpacked!” she called to Harry and Ron, who were already halfway up the staircase. “And Hermione, love,” she said, in a softer voice, taking her hand, “I know this is your first Christmas without your parents. If you need anything at all, do let us know, won’t you?”

Hermione nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak. “Thank you,” she managed, and with a last comforting squeeze of her hand, Molly bustled off to the kitchen, and Hermione headed up to Ginny’s bedroom with her trunk in tow.

The Burrow was just how she had always remembered it, the mess, the magic, the bustling, busyness of all its occupants. The music and chatter and the hubbub of daily life oozed through every doorway like honey.

After unpacking and repacking her trunk in order to return it to some semblance of organisation, Hermione wandered back downstairs again. She idly made to check the infamous Weasley family clock and noticed with a start that it had been turned around to face the wall.

 _Oh_.

She started towards it, curiosity sparking in her fingertips, stretching out to touch it, to turn it round, to find out why, but something stopped her. No.

Some grief was private. And it wasn’t her place to pry.

Wandering back into the kitchen, something warm and familiar began to spread out in her chest like the flutter of opening pages. Harry and Ron were sat at the lunch table already embroiled in a game of Wizard’s Chess, Ginny was giggling with her mother by the oven, and the dulcet tones of Celestina Warbeck were drifting out of the old-fashioned radio on the side. Arthur and Percy were engaged in a serious conversation about muggle politics as they levitated ornaments onto the enormous Christmas tree in the corner; so tall that its uppermost portion was bent at a right angle against the ceiling. A spectacularly ugly fake angel dangled precariously from the top.

The kitchen smelt of Molly’s glorious cooking, the windows were fogged up slightly from the heat, and the chatter and laughter filled the space like warmth. It felt like home.

No sooner had she set foot in the kitchen, had Molly directed her enthusiastically towards the table, where she sat eagerly, grinning at the scenes around her. Ron paused from egging on one of his bishops (who was currently thrashing the living daylights out of one of Harry’s knights) and beamed at her.

“How’s it going?” he asked fondly, and she smiled.

“Wonderful.”

Molly bustled over and set a steaming hot bowl full to the brim with stew in front of her. “Eat up,” she insisted, with a squeeze of her shoulder.

“Oi, where’s mine?” asked Ron.

“You’ve lived here for eighteen years, you can get your own bowl,” Molly admonished. As she turned to leave, Hermione caught sight of something in her apron pocket.

And if she looked closely, it looked like it might just be the hand of a clock.

Stopped forever from turning.

* * *

The week before Christmas passed by in a flash. They amused themselves with games of all shapes and sizes, from two-a-side Quidditch to poker, until they went to bed every night shattered, full of Molly’s delicious cooking and the saturated fatigue of good company. On the nights Ginny and Harry didn’t sneak off alone, she and Hermione would stay up chatting and giggling and making plans for the following year, drawing sparks on the ceiling with their wands.

Ginny and Harry were so in love that it tugged at Hermione’s chest in the best and the worst way. It was like it all came so easily to them. No matter what disagreement or problem that arose, their feelings for one another meant to that nothing was insurmountable; they could talk it through with the certainty that they loved one another enough to make it though. They could often be found hushed in their own private conversations, words meant only for one another. Hands searched for one another underneath the dinner table, stolen glances seared lasers across any room that parted them. Ginny's plans for the future involved Harry as surely as the air she breathed – it was as if he was a given, a lifelong constant that she was only too happy to include.

Hermione longed for that ease. Her relationship with Ron felt about a million miles away from their effortless commitment, and the tensions showed through like concrete cracks on the nights that she and Ron would spend time alone. They were fine as long as it felt like friendship, as long as there was no attempt to progress anything beyond the easy companionship they had known for seven years. But as soon as Ron laid a warm hand on her leg, moved closer, breath shifted to her neck, that prickling, itching discontent would unfurl its way up Hermione’s body like gooseflesh. And she’d have to dart back, make an excuse, put enough distance between them that her breathing slowed and her heart stopped beating out of her chest.

As the week went on, Ron tried less and less, and the heat in his eyes cooled bit by bit. And Hermione began to fear that if she didn’t do something soon, she might just lose him.

Thankfully, the daytimes were busy enough to take her mind off of it. The Burrow was a constant hive of activity, with people dropping in to visit every single day.

Andromeda Tonks was a particularly frequent visitor, invariably with the now eight-month-old and usually pink-haired Teddy Lupin in her arms. Harry was completely taken with his godson in much the same way as his own godfather had been, and Hermione spotted him and Ginny cooing over little Teddy one night, a soft look in their eyes that told Hermione everything she needed to know about their future plans together. Teddy was growing into himself already, and with his newfound ability to crawl, kept the entire Weasley clan on their toes with his habit of disappearing from the room and being found twenty minutes later sucking on the end of Crookshanks’ tail, who surprisingly didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

One evening at the dinner table, Charlie swept in out of nowhere and proudly unveiled what looked to be a very convincing-looking dragon egg. He proceeded to present it flamboyantly to George, telling him it would make him a fortune on backroom sales at the shop, who enthusiastically agreed and enquired about a breeding program. Molly hit the roof, chaos reigned, and it took half an hour of her yelling for the two brothers to get enough words in edgeways to reveal that it was a prank. As if on cue, the ‘dragon egg’ exploded in a puff of blue smoke and the unfortunate side effect of a smell of sour milk that pervaded the entire kitchen for the next thirty-six hours.

Bill and Fleur dropped by on Christmas Eve to make an announcement; she was proudly sporting the beginnings of a baby bump underneath her dress. The anticipation of the arrival of her first grandchild was too much for Molly to bear, and dinner was a rather interesting affair that night as she kept bursting into tears every five minutes, causing every handkerchief in the house to fly to her aid at once.

Christmas Day itself passed in a dizzy blur of food, drink, and merriment. Hermione threw herself into the festivities, determined not to think about Christmases past. Still, it was hard not to be reminded of her parents, so many millions of miles away, every time Arthur kissed Molly on the cheek and she blushed, every time George snuck a ton-tongue toffee into someone’s lap, every time a Christmas cracker was pulled, showering the room with an explosion of confetti.

The Weasleys had, as always, been more than generous with their gifts. A wonderfully warm knitted ‘H’ jumper and a tray of treacle fudge were predictable, but no less appreciated for that. Hermione also received a book of logic puzzles and a handsome new quill from Harry; a box of Fizzing Whizzbees from Ginny, from which the younger girl promptly stole a couple; and a bottle of perfume from Ron which Hermione wasn’t sure she would ever use, given that it smelt faintly of cat wee, but thanked him for nonetheless. It was all familiar, all expected, still rather charming.

However, something entirely more unexpected happened after dinner: the arrival of a large (and now rather familiar) owl at the window. Malfoy’s handsome bird had come bearing gifts, and he flew off with an affectionate hoot after Hermione retrieved a handwritten ‘Merry Christmas Granger’ note and a small package, which was revealed to contain a gorgeous pair of gloves. They were made with some kind of yarn she didn’t recognise, but had to be rather expensive, as they were wondrously soft and warm, and a deep, rich emerald green in colour. Hermione’s cheeks felt very warm as she tried to open the gift and set it to one side as unobtrusively as possible, trying not to smile, but when she looked back up again, Ron was watching her with uncertain eyes.

When the very last dish had been cleared, everyone relocated to the living room with bellies so full that no one seemed able to do very much at all other than keep drinking and chatting and dozing off into the sofa cushions.

Eventually Hermione decided her eyes were too heavy to keep open any longer, and she headed upstairs towards Ginny’s bedroom, only to realise that the door was very firmly shut, and that two soft, low voices were emanating from within. Considering both Ginny and Harry had conveniently disappeared about half an hour prior, Hermione didn’t have to guess who was inside.

With a sigh, she walked a little way down the landing and found a reasonably thick patch of carpet to settle down onto, leaning back against the wall. How long she was there for she didn’t know, but she startled to awareness when Ron’s bedroom door cracked open and his face appeared around the doorframe.

He grinned at her, his freckles almost golden in the yellow light. “Psst,” he whispered.

Smiling to hide the familiar uncertain jolt in her chest, Hermione collected her things, got to her feet and let him beckon her inside, shutting the door behind them with a quiet thud. 

“Merry Christmas,” he said softly, leaning in to kiss her. She acquiesced, the hairs on the back of her neck tingling, but thankfully no other reactions making themselves known. Together they settled down onto the end of his bed, and Hermione looked around, spotting that he’d pared down his Chudley Cannons paraphernalia enough to reveal a few gaps of plain white wall between the orange posters. Her heart began to pound.

“Merry Christmas,” she replied. “Have you had a good one?”

He nodded. “A really good one. Especially with having you here.”

She blushed and ducked her head down minutely, strangely embarrassed. Something in his eyes flickered, and he leant in to kiss her again, deeper this time.

His hands moved; one to her waist, the other to curl into her hair. He pressed forwards, aligning his body with hers, and she stiffened minutely. As if sensing the change, he relented.

“What’s wrong?” he asked hesitantly.

“I just-” she stammered. “I’m sorry, I just don’t think I’m in the right place, and-”

And finally, something broke through in Ron’s expression, a chink in the armour of patience and understanding he’d worn all year. “Do you think you’ll _ever_ be in the right place?” he whispered.

Adrenaline spiked in Hermione’s veins. “I don’t, I don’t know-”

“Because if you don’t want this, I deserve to know." His voice was brittle - hard on the surface, but easily cracked.

“No, Ron, I do-” she started.

“No you don’t!” Ron cried, the emotions finally crashing through as if the floodgates had been released all at once, his voice cracking, eyebrows creasing with hurt. “You _don’t_ want this!” He grabbed at her hand, pulling it towards himself, and she yanked it back with a force that cracked the joints in her fingers. “See?!” he demanded.

There was a wobble in her voice, a bubble of fear and shame in her throat. “S-stop it, I don’t-”

“You can’t even touch me, can you? Every time I touch you, or kiss you, or Merlin forbid tell you I love you, you shrink away! Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

“I just don’t know!” she cried. “Maybe it’s just normal, and I just need more time, I can-”

“No, Hermione, it’s not normal!” he roared. “It’s not _normal_ for someone who says she loves me to cringe every time I so much as hold her _hand_! Look, I can’t even-”

He reached for her, hands going to her waist, and yanked her towards him with fingers that bruised.

Hermione snapped. She seized his hand in a vice-like grip, shoved him away from her until he fell hard onto the bed, and slammed his fist down against his chest, panting hard.

“If you _ever_ -” she hissed, drawing her wand and shoving it to his jaw, “do that again, Ronald Weasley, I’ll make you _damn_ sorry.”

Her blood was pounding so loudly in her ears that she could barely hear Ron as he opened his mouth to speak, shame and guilt in his eyes. “Hermione, I’m so sorry-”

“Leave it,” she snapped, climbing off the bed and stepping as far away as she could. Her chest was heaving, stomach roiling.

Ron sat up slowly, tentatively. “I-I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have,” he whispered. They stared at one another in silence, Ron rubbing at the indent of her wand in his neck, Hermione folding her arms tightly against her chest like a life jacket.

“So… what now?” he asked, in a voice that cracked.

Hermione willed her face not to crumple, tears threatening her with every passing heartbeat. “I… I don’t know,” she whispered. “I think… I think I’m going to go back to school.”

“Hermione-”

“Please don’t try and stop me,” she said quietly, fixing her gaze on a loose thread on his duvet. “I think we both need some space, and some time. And we’ll talk when you get back.”

“But I don’t want to-”

“I don’t - _care_ ,” she hissed, a tear finally overcoming her defences and spilling down her cheek. “We _have_ to, if we want to salvage this. We need to think. And we can’t do that if I’m here with you and your family every minute of every day. I-I need… a break.”

There was a long pause, Ron’s face completely stricken. Minutes passed, until finally he nodded, slowly, brokenly. “Okay. Okay, you’re right. A break,” he breathed. “If that’s what you want. Fuck, Hermione, I want this to work. I do. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

She simply nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

An age passed between them, and with neither of them willing to break the silence, Hermione eventually bent to scoop up the small pile of Christmas gifts she had left by the door. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I’ll see you-”

And then his eyes flitted to the pair of green gloves in her hands. There was a heartbeat of silence.

“Does this have anything to do with Malfoy?” he whispered.

Hermione’s blood ran cold in her veins, and the next few seconds of silence felt like they lasted an hour. The sight of the emptiness in his eyes, as if it was a foregone conclusion, struck her into speechlessness.

“How _dare_ you?” she breathed. “Of _course_ not. This is about you and me. How _dare_ you suggest that my friendship with Draco could have any sort of effect on our-”

“I wasn’t suggesting a friendship,” he said, his voice as raw and vitriolic as acid.

And fury bloomed into flame in Hermione’s chest, raw and sharp and _fucking delicious_. “That’s _it_ , Ronald!” she shrieked, no longer caring who could hear her. “I’ve had enough of your jealousy! This has _everything_ to do with us, and nothing _whatsoever_ to do with Draco _sodding_ Malfoy! And if you’re not mature enough to see that, then we’re in a _far_ worse place than I thought!”

Slamming the door behind her wasn’t as satisfying as she had hoped, but it came close. She ran down the corridor, and, past caring, threw open Ginny’s bedroom door and stormed in, ignoring the muffled yelp from Ginny and the sight of Harry nearly toppling out of the bed in panic. She grabbed at her trunk, shoving everything she could find into it.

“Hermione, what the hell-?!”

“I’m going back to Hogwarts!” she cried, tears cracking through into her voice.

Ginny pulled at the bedsheets, scrambling towards her while trying to protect as much of her modesty as possible. “Wait, Hermione, what’s wrong, can’t you-?!”

“No, I _can’t_!” Hermione shouted, her chest heaving. “I have to go!”

She yanked the last of her things from the corner, and deciding that was enough, made off towards the door. They were both staring at her in shock, as if she’d lost her mind. “I… I’m sorry,” she croaked.

And calling for Crookshanks, who leapt into her arms, she turned on her heel and Disapparated.

A few moments of rushing disorientation, and then she was standing outside the Hogwarts gates, shivering in the night air. Her anger had subsided, but the guilt had begun to seep into every pore, marring her like an infection.

She had been so busy denying the existence of hers and Draco’s non-existent relationship that she had turned a blind eye to her own culpability. It was _her_ inability to communicate with Ron that had led to things getting this bad in the first place. It was like she had thrust one hundred percent of the blame squarely on his shoulders, without a thought in the world to the flaws and inaction on her part that had led to this point. And that knowledge ate at her like a disease.

What felt like hours later, an irate, tartan dressing gown-clad Professor McGonagall appeared behind the gates. “And what sort of time do you call th- _oh_.” She took one look at Hermione’s blotchy, trembling, tear-stained face, and the anger melted off of her features. The gates opened immediately. “Why, whatever is the matter, Miss Granger?” she asked, an uncharacteristic softness in her voice.

And that was the final straw. Hermione could do nothing but fall forward into her Headmistress’ startled arms and sob.

* * *

Boxing Day dawned bright and cold, and Hermione felt sapped of energy, both physical and emotional.

Flora, the only other girl still in the dormitory over Christmas, took one look at her face, and went straight down to the kitchen, and returned with the biggest mug of tea Hermione had ever seen. She could have wept with gratitude.

The night before, after managing to prise the weeping Hermione off of her person, McGonagall had wasted no time in taking her straight to Madam Pomfrey, who had called her a ‘ _silly girl_ ’ in a fond sort of way and administered both a warming potion and some carefully measured out reassurances in equal doses.

Hermione hadn’t offered any explanation for her state, but she overheard a quiet acknowledgement between the two older women that ‘the first Christmas is tough’. It didn’t take Hermione long to work out that they meant the first Christmas without her parents. And even though that hadn’t been what this was all about, not really, she couldn’t help but feel that things might have gone just a little bit differently if her parents were still around. Fresh tears threatened at the thought.

She had refused to stay in the Hospital Wing overnight, but when she arrived up to her dorm at nearly two in the morning, waking Flora with a start, she fell into bed and pressed her face into the pillows until they were soaked through.

The next morning, a cursory attempt at dressing saw her curled up at the head of her bed against the pillows, wearing a loose-knit jumper, the enormous mug of tea clasped dearly in her hands. A soft pair of green mittens seemed to stare at her from on top of her trunk.

Flora, who Hermione hadn’t really interacted with an awful lot since the start of the year other than in games with the other girls, had taken pity on her, and managed to prevent her from drowning in melancholy by pulling out an old game of battleships and forcing her to take part. They sat together, calling out squares and watching the enchanted pieces blow themselves to smithereens with each impact, and with every soft word from Flora, Hermione felt her hurt settle.

They played one game, then two, then three, and by the fourth game, Hermione was laughing again. When Flora destroyed her very last battleship with a victorious crow, Hermione found herself overcome with thankfulness at the support of the women around her. The younger girl let Hermione hug her for a few moments, then pulled back, scrunched her nose pleasantly at her, and invited her down to the great hall for lunch.

Hermione felt almost as if she was in a dream as they made their way down the tower. She hadn’t bothered to put her robes on, so was clad only in her jumper, fluffy socks, and a pair of baggy jogging bottoms as they descended the steps, cradling the residual warmth of the empty mug in her hands that she hadn’t found herself able to let go of. Her hair was a wild mess, she was sure, but somehow, she just didn’t care. The high ceilings and painting-adorned walls filled her with a sense of longing and nostalgia, and it seemed to hit her for the first time that this would be her last year here.

The great hall, as was customary for the Christmas holidays, featured only one long singular table, around which about twenty students of all houses were dotted, helping themselves to food and drink and chatting happily. Flora slid in next to a younger boy from Hufflepuff that Hermione didn’t recognise, taking her seat uncertainly beside her.

It felt somehow bizarre to consider eating when everything she knew felt like it had been upturned in the last twenty-four hours, but her stomach was roaring in her chest, so she reached gratefully for a sandwich and lost herself in her thoughts for several minutes.

She didn’t know where she and Ron stood. She didn’t think they had broken up, not quite. But she wasn’t entirely sure that they were still together.

Perhaps if she could figure out why she was so uncomfortable with their physical relationship… it could salvage the rest of their relationship? But if all they were doing was taking some time to re-evaluate, then why did it feel so… _final_?

And why was she refusing to let herself search the great hall for any sign of Draco?

That afternoon, after writing a letter to Mrs Weasley to thank her for her hospitality and kindness, and expressing her sincerest apologies for having left so suddenly, Hermione donned a much warmer set of layers, including a scarf and a woollen hat, and set off towards the owlery.

She allowed herself a moment of guilt for the turbulence she had no doubt left behind her at the Burrow. It was hard to believe that her and Ron’s shouting wouldn’t have woken up another soul, and there was of course also the possibility that she had traumatised poor Harry and Ginny from barging in on them so suddenly. She made a mental note to apologise to them in person when they got back to school.

She was so deep in thought that she didn’t notice the figure of somebody else inside the owlery, and walked smack-bang into the stunned body of the one person that Hermione had been trying to avoid all day. Her hands shot up to protect herself, and they stumbled backwards, away from another, wearing equal expressions of shock. Hermione’s heart began to pound very fast. Too fast.

“D-Draco!” she spluttered, yanking an errant curl of hair behind her ear. “What are you doing here?!”

He blinked at her, his cheeks pink above his green scarf. Had his cheekbones always been that defined? _Sculpted_ , almost, she thought. “I’m, er, posting a letter,” he said, stiffly. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“The, uh, the same,” she mumbled. His eyes were so grey.

“I thought you were going to the Weasleys’?”

She bit her lip. “I did. It, uh, didn’t work out.”

His eyebrows rose briefly before he schooled himself back into neutrality. “…Oh,” he said.

“Mm.”

If only Hermione could control her heart rate as easily as Draco could control his facial expression. “Uh, thank you for the Christmas present,” she said quickly, blushing. “They were lovely.”

He smiled shyly. “It’s nothing. Thank you for yours.”

She had sent him a small set of calligraphy quill tips. It was nothing much, nothing he wouldn’t have been able to afford for himself, but he had mentioned that he had always wanted to learn calligraphy, and, well, Hermione had listened.

“You’re welcome,” she responded, feeling the strangest sense of embarrassment curl up her neck. “Er, who are you writing to…?” she asked, for something to say.

“Oh! No one,” he said quickly, hiding the letter behind his back.

Curiosity won out over embarrassment.

“Oh really?” She made a grab for it. “Go on, you can tell me-”

“It was for you,” he said quickly, gritting his teeth. “But, uh, you’re here now, so, yay, you don’t need it.” He crumpled it into a ball and shoved it deep into his pocket.

She blinked at him, a slow smile spreading over face. “What did you want to tell me?”

He warred with himself for a few moments and finally grabbed the letter back out of his pocket. He presented the crumpled ball of parchment to her, refusing to meet her eyes. “I’m only giving this to you because it’s less embarrassing that saying it,” he grumbled.

She tore it open.

_‘Granger,_

_I hope you had a Merry Christmas. Professor Flitwick drank eight sherries and fell asleep at the dinner table until Hagrid started singing some old Scottish drinking song and knocked him off his chair with an especially wild swing of his tankard. McGonagall tried to look disapproving, but she’d been mouthing the words the whole time._

_Anyway, I wanted to say that I’ve been working on another classroom by myself. I’m being careful, I promise, I know you’ll worry otherwise._

_Missing your company._

_Draco.’_

She looked up again to see his face, even redder than before. His lips were pursed with embarrassment, eyes downcast. It told her everything she might want to read between the lines.

“I missed you too,” she said gently. She wanted…

His eyes flickered up to her own and creased at the corners, the most hesitant of smiles. And Hermione lost the battle in her heart over whether to hug him or not.

She didn’t think it was her imagination that he met her halfway this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank yous once more to everyone leaving comments and kudos <3 you're the best!  
> I'm currently writing chapter 14, and it occurred to me that a Draco POV of this story could be a lot of fun... What do you think?  
> Next chapter coming on Wednesday, after which we'll be going back to once-weekly updates to give me enough time to finish writing! See you then :)


	12. "No Extendable Ears Required"

A few days later, Hermione and Draco had fallen into a routine.

They would meet one another each morning at breakfast, for the first time able to sit at the same table together. And over tea and toast, they would plan what they were going to do that day. Another bathroom, another classroom, that wonky-looking banister up the astronomy tower… And then they’d grab lunch supplies for the day and disappear off to that part of the castle. In the daylight there was more need for secrecy, which resulted in a giddy, hushed kind of energy as they mended cracks and hoisted tapestries and pieced portraits back together.

Hermione loved the work, but she was also deeply grateful for its role in keeping them busy. Whenever they had nothing to do, or any plans to make, she kept finding herself very aware of her heart in her throat, dangerously cognizant of her sweaty palms and electric pulse. There was something about seeing Draco truly relaxed that took her off guard, made her mind race with impossible half-formed thoughts. It was nothing more than idle daydreaming, of course, it didn’t mean anything. But it did make Hermione try and fill up every possible moment with distractions.

Spending time together at mealtimes revealed a number of things about him that she’d had no idea of. Apparently, not only did Draco hate raisins, but he also eschewed most vegetables. Dessert was his favourite course – probably, Hermione thought, because of its lack of most things green and leafy. He liked jam on his toast, but detested marmalade, and would make faces at her every time she spread it on her own breakfast. What he didn’t like in vegetables, he more than made up for in fruit. And if he spotted Italian food on the table, God help anyone that stood in his way.

“I’ve got an idea,” announced Draco that morning, dropping onto the seat across the table from her. His hair was sleep-tousled, cheeks pink, clearly only just out of bed but eager to join her. “I’ve got an idea, but you may not like it.”

She pulled her thoughts away from his eating habits, swallowing both her mouthful and the irrepressible excitement at seeing him. “Oh dear. Why are you trying to put me off already?”

“Reverse psychology,” he quipped, reaching for the toast rack.

She huffed. “I’m regretting telling you about that.”

He smirked and busied himself with his breakfast for a few moments. “Listen. I was on the seventh floor on my way back yesterday, you know, opposite that troll tapestry? And… _a door_ _appeared_.”

Hermione froze, toast sticking in her throat. “A-are you sure? No one’s seen it all year, I thought it was completely destroyed, I thought-”

“It’s not,” he said, excitement glimmering in his eyes. “The Room of Requirement is back.”

“Did you go in?” she gasped.

“Er, no,” he admitted. There was a pause. “I, er… thought maybe you’d like to be there.” Her smile widened and he scowled in embarrassment. “Never mind,” he grumbled.

She crunched down on another bite of toast, unable to keep her grin at bay. “What did _you_ need so badly for the room to appear?”

He appeared to falter at that, almost choking on a sip of tea. “I don’t know,” he said evasively, and Hermione continued to watch him with a grin, but didn’t push.

“Anyway,” he said quickly. “I’ve always wanted to see what it can do. I only ever saw it as the Room of Hidden Things, but you know, I remember what you said about the, er, the DA, was it? So, er… Do you want to go and investigate after breakfast? See if it’s fixed?”

She considered this for a moment. “I mean, I can’t say I’m not fascinated to see what happened to it, but aren’t you nervous about what the Fiendfyre did to it? For all we know, it could still be ablaze. And I… I suppose I have to say I’m surprised you’re up for it, you know, so soon after… Crabbe.”

He looked taken aback for a moment, as if it hadn’t even occurred to him. And then that creasing, crumbling expression appeared, the one Hermione knew all too well. _Remembering_.

She automatically went to reach for his hand before thinking better of it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s okay,” he told her, settling himself. “I just…forgot, for a moment.” The mask came down again.

“Hey, don’t do that,” she murmured. “Don’t Occlude. You don’t need to hide your feelings from me.”

He blinked, a slight blush appearing on his cheeks as he focused his gaze rather intently on his plate. But the mask dropped a little.

“If you want to try the Room of Requirement, then so do I,” she told him. “But any moment you want to leave, you just tell me, yeah?”

He rolled his eyes at her, clearly recovered. “I’m not a child, Granger.”

She smirked. “Alright, prove it,” she said. “Eat your greens at dinner tonight.”

He pulled the most disgusted face and she laughed at him, little bursts of delight fizzing in her chest.

* * *

Laden with supplies for the day, the two of them eventually set off for the seventh floor. Their normal jokes and chatter had dwindled, and if Draco was feeling anything like she was, they were only becoming more and more nervous about what they might find with every staircase they climbed.

Hermione felt her pulse vibrating in her fingertips. The last time she’d seen the Room of Requirement, it had been engulfed in flames. It was hard to believe that there could be anything left of the room since the Fiendfyre tore through it all those months ago. But after the things Hermione had seen this year… she was allowing herself to have hope.

They eventually got to the right corridor, faced the huge expanse of wall before them. Draco’s expression was unreadable, but he was paler than normal, and his knuckles were clenched in his fists. Barnabus the Barmy and his troupe of trolls looked on from the tapestry behind them.

In silence, they walked past it once, focusing on the phrase they had agreed on.

_Show us a safe place._

Twice _._

_Show us a safe place._

Three times:

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Draco nodded stiffly but didn’t make a move.

_Show us a safe place._

And then, as they watched, cast iron and dark wood melted into existence. Hinges appeared as if from nowhere, stone turned to metal, and eventually they were left looking at the door of the room that held so many memories for both of them.

_Resistance._

_Isolation._

_Friendship._

_Desperation._

_Fire._

_Loss._

Hermione didn’t even realise she had taken his hand in hers until she felt him squeeze, an unspoken reassurance. And then they walked forward.

She stretched out gingerly to touch the doorhandle, as if expecting it to be red-hot, but of course it was completely cool. Nothing out of the ordinary. And so, turning it gently, they braced themselves for what they would find within.

* * *

Nothing.

It was a perfectly normal room, no different to any other in the castle. It certainly didn’t look anything like the Room of Requirement Hermione knew.

Hardwood floors that looked for all the world as if they’d never seen so much as a spark, simple arched walls bowing up into a rounded ceiling, a set of dim windows peering in from the far wall. It was perhaps no bigger than Hermione’s dormitory, but completely sparse and entirely devoid of furnishings. Like a… clean slate.

They stepped tentatively inside, footsteps tapping clean echoes onto the floorboards. The door swung shut behind them, and that was it.

The air was cool but stale. Dull. Empty.

“Ask it for something,” she whispered.

“I- I’d like…” Draco tailed off grouchily. “This feels stupid, Granger, you ask it for something.”

“Draco.”

“It, er, it would be nice to have somewhere to sit down?” he suggested.

The room remained silent, remained empty.

“Well,” he said. “There’s that.”

He dropped her hand very suddenly, as if stung, and moved away. She watched as he scouted the walls, hands searching for something, anything, she didn’t know.

“Draco-” she tried.

“This can’t just be it,” he said quietly. “This can’t be it.”

“What do you mean?”

“We can’t have destroyed it.”

Understanding dawned on her. “You didn’t destroy it-”

“Yes we did!” he burst out. “A couple of _stupid_ decisions, and a _stupid_ year, and a _stupid_ spell, and we’ve _destroyed_ this place-”

“Hey, it’s okay-”

“We can fix it,” he forced out. “Come on, Hermione, what do we do?!” His eyes were wild, desperate. “Tell me!”

Hermione bit her lip, eyelids creasing with worry. It took a tremendous amount of willpower to shake her head.

He let out a groan of frustration that Hermione had never heard him make before, and he turned back to the wall, pacing up and down in determination to find something, anything, more than this.

Her brain was racing with things she could say to confront him, to console him, to calm him, but she knew deep down that what he needed was time. And the longer she watched him, the more she would worry, and the more her gut would ache at the sight of his distress and anger.

And so, despite the guilt in her belly, she fished a book out of her bag, conjured a small cushion, and settled down in one corner to read while Draco stalked from one end of the room to the other, the air around him practically crackling with determination.

Hermione had read about magical damage to buildings, about how places as imbued with magic as the Room of Requirement tended not to recover from being hit with such extremes of dark magic. It was a miracle that the room was still here at all, even if it was a hollow shell of its former self.

She huffed a curl of hair out of her face and turned her attention down to her book.

Eventually, Draco stopped pacing. When Hermione looked up, she saw him sat on the floor, his back to her, arms wrapped around his knees. It was like he’d given up. And her heart ached at the thought.

“ _Avis_ ,” she whispered softly, and a small, chubby yellow bird launched itself out of the tip of her wand and towards him, where after being batted away half-heartedly a couple of times it settled for fluttering round him in lazy circles, twittering loudly.

“Did you know,” she asked, “that I once set a flock of those little birds on Ron?”

He didn’t move, but Hermione knew he was listening. And probably trying very hard not to smile, if she knew him at all.

“He was covered in scratches for weeks. I was so mad with him for kissing Lavender Brown, at the time. I was so sure that we were made for each other,” she finished quietly.

The conjured bird disappeared in a little puff of yellow smoke and Draco got to his feet. A few steps and he was beside her, settling down again onto the cold floor as Hermione conjured a cushion underneath him.

He leant his head back against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. But whether it was in sympathy for the story, or an apology for his outburst, Hermione didn’t know.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” she said gently, closing her book.

“I think…” he started. “I think maybe let’s not do any fixing today.”

“What - and just… hang out?”

“Yes.”

Her mind began to whirl. If she thought she had been feeling overexcitable and giddy when they were unoccupied for half an hour – how on earth would she manage a full day? She was being stupid, she knew, but it was hard to write it off entirely when her heart had started to pound at the thought alone.

“Okay,” she said, uncertainly, ignoring the flash of pleasure in her belly when he smiled.

They sat in silence for a while. “Are you alright?” she asked gently.

She watched his face for any signs of Occluding, but he just sighed. “Yeah. I just… this room reminds me of a lot of stupid decisions.”

Hermione searched for something to say but soon gave up, realising that it was quite enough to be sat here together, watching the dust motes swirling through the light from the high windows. “You know,” she said, after a while, “you never told me why you decided to take Muggle Studies this year.”

He sighed again, trailing his fingers in indecipherable patterns against the stone. “I suppose… it felt like a first _good_ decision.”

“You’ve made good decisions before,” Hermione reminded him. He made a face of disagreement and she turned to face him more fully. “I’m serious. What about that night in the Astronomy tower? Or when we were captured, and you refused to identify us?”

“But those weren’t _good_ decions. They were just… the absence of negative action.”

“Which stopped much worse decisions being made,” she said softly. “And hey, what about giving Luna a blanket at the manor? That counts for something, right?”

He didn’t answer, but there was a soft smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

“This… was a good decision,” he said carefully. “The club. Y- well, you know. Everything.” And Hermione had to swing her face away to hide her blush.

Another cushion suddenly popped into existence beside him.

“Enough with the cushions, Granger,” he snorted. “There’s only so many a man can use-”

She swivelled to face him. “Er… I didn’t do that.”

They looked at one another uneasily. Another cushion winked into view.

“Are _you_ doing that?”

“No,” he breathed, an awed sort of hesitation in his voice.

They waited.

And then a third cushion appeared out of thin air, as bright yellow as the bird from Hermione’s wand.

She bit her lip. “Didn’t you say you wanted somewhere to sit…?”

There was a silence.

And then Draco’s smile stretched into a broad, broad grin. “I think we might have figured out how to fix it, after all.”

* * *

When no further cushions appeared after several minutes, it was safe to assume that the Room had decided it was finished with Draco’s request. They had wandered around the perimeter of the room asking for more things for half an hour, receiving no response, when Hermione happened to summon her bookbag from the other side of the room. And as if on cue, a plush, plum-coloured sofa popped into the centre of the room out of nowhere.

They blinked at one another.

And then proceeded to lose themselves in a flurry of spell-casting.

It seemed that every burst of magic was strengthening the room, fortifying its ability to provide whatever they wished for. And when they got tired of summoning things from one side of the room to the other, they began to turn their wands on one another.

It started with a gentle _Rictumsempra_ between Hermione’s shoulder blades that caused her to double over in giggles.

She retaliated with a sly leg-locker jinx, only sparing a tiny moment of guilt as he, caught off guard, toppled forwards and onto the sofa with a muffled laugh.

And from there, it turned into a duel.

It was all silly charms, of course. Practically nothing beyond third-year level.

But as bolts of light flew between them, shield charms flaring and sparks showering, Hermione found herself floating on a breathless joy that filled her limbs and evaporated her worries. It was like being in the DA all over again. Draco was laughing with each cast, each dodge, his face a picture of delight. And Hermione couldn’t stop herself grinning, shrieking with giggles every time she dove to avoid a spell. Her hair was whipping about her face, falling in her eyes, and she had to keep tugging it hastily behind her ear to keep casting.

She ducked behind the sofa to dodge the latest onslaught. When the barrage of spells ceased for a moment, she hesitantly rose up to peep over it again, and came face to face with a victorious Draco.

“I win,” he crowed, and cast a triumphant colour-changing charm at her eyebrow while they laughed uproariously.

She couldn't stop grinning at him.

He was kneeling on the plum sofa, smirking down on her where she crouched behind it. His arms were folded comfortably over the top, millimetres away from where she clung to it with eager hands.

He was very close, she realised. 

Too close.

Her laugh faltered.

His expression sobered, stilled. And all at once, she was tuned into every breath he drew, the sheer proximity imprinting the sound of each little intake of oxygen deep into her brain. His left eyebrow was slightly longer than the right – a few stray silvery-blond hairs edging over into the gap above the bridge of his nose. A crease appeared in his cheek where a muscle quirked, a subtle lift of intrigue. There was a slight indent in his bottom lip that looked like it might match the edge of one canine tooth when he smiled.

But he wasn’t smiling now.

She had been staring at his mouth, eyes roving over every line and dip of his face as though studying a lover. And he had noticed. He was watching her, carefully, delicately, as if the full stare of his irises would blow her away like a fallen leaf. And she watched, helpless, as his gaze flitted briefly, ineffably, to her lips.

There was a pulling, a tugging, in her stomach, but it was different to the earlier sort. It was lifting, lilting, beguiling, a subtle plea for her to rise up those few more tiny centimetres towards him, to close that distance-

“What colour is my eyebrow?” she asked weakly. His gaze flicked back up.

“Purple,” he breathed.

“Oh,” she said, because her brain had gone blessedly, cursedly, empty.

He lifted a hand, and then he was brushing away a curl of hair that she hadn’t even realised had fallen into her face. She held her breath as he tucked it back, his fingers resting just a millisecond too long on the shell of her ear.

And then everything went dark.

Hermione yanked her face away in alarm and realised that it wasn’t that she hadn’t gone blind as she feared – the sudden darkness had fallen when a dozen sets of shades simultaneously appeared over every single one of the windows in the Room, shutting out the world.

Her heart hammering in her chest, she got unsteadily to her feet. A brief internal wish, and the blinds opened again, flooding the room once more with light.

They stood in awkward, stricken silence.

“My, er, my eyes were hurting,” said Draco quickly, his cheeks pink. “Sorry, I didn’t realise it would do that-”

“Oh, yes, that explains it, it _was_ getting quite bright in here,” she said eagerly, clinging to the excuse in order to ignore the possibility that the Room might have been addressing an entirely different unspoken requirement. “Hey, why don’t we, er, see if we can get the Room back to its normal size?”

“Yeah!” he said, a little too enthusiastically. Hermione bit her lip, and together they set about doing absolutely anything except look at one another.

* * *

By the time they decided to settle down onto the plush sofa for lunch, the room was starting to look more and more like its normal self. Infusing the air with magic had made the room pliant, willing to suggestion. And so gradually, bit by bit, they had pushed the walls back, enlarged it, heightened it, and wordlessly gotten rid of the window blinds that seemed to suggest something more than either of them was willing to admit.

Hermione tore into her sandwich with the determination of someone hoping to avoid a conversation.

She didn’t think she was quite brave enough to really think about what had happened earlier. It was all too confusing. Not even a week ago, she’d fled the Burrow in a haze of anger and grief, crying herself to sleep over her guilt at not wanting a physical relationship with Ron. And yet here she was, breathless and dizzy at what she had no choice but to admit was a near-kiss with Draco.

She knew she was attracted to him. That was simple. But attraction was just physical, just chemical. It meant absolutely nothing about compatibility, or true desire, or, God forbid, emotion. She couldn’t let her logical brain give into such foolish, shallow thoughts. It was nothing to get worked up about, nothing to start making hasty decisions about. Especially not before she’d had the chance to talk to Ron.

Plus, how could she be sure that Draco had experienced exactly what she had been? What if he had been confused by her behaviour, uncertain why she’d gone silent, studying his face like a textbook? Merlin, she needed to get a grip.

She would get over this schoolgirl crush, she was sure of it. People in relationships had these sorts of things all the time. It would pass, she told herself, as she took another bite of her sandwich.

It _would_ pass.

It had to.

* * *

On the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, they decided to walk down to Hogsmeade. Draco wanted a trip to Honeydukes, and Hermione had agreed to go with him as long as they made a stop at Flourish and Blotts. It was freezing cold outside, the world laden with frost as delicate as spun sugar and twice as crunchy underfoot, but with her new gloves on, Hermione could barely feel the frigid wind. Draco himself was wrapped up in the thickest scarf she had ever seen, and when she attempted to tease him for it, she couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of him attempting to scowl from behind yards and yards of bundled up fabric.

“Don’t say a word,” he grumbled. “My mother insisted.”

Draco didn’t often talk about his mother, so Hermione was instantly curious. “Was that a Christmas present from her?” she asked.

He nodded his assent, his breath clouding in the air before them. “She was worried about me staying at school over the holidays.”

Hermione wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Are you missing home?” she asked gently.

He buried his face further into his scarf and mumbled something.

“What?”

“I miss my mother,” he repeated quietly.

She made a soft noise of sympathy. “Do you think you’ll visit her soon?”

“No,” he said, rather quickly. His pace increased slightly, and Hermione had to put more effort into keeping up with him, careful not to slip on the icy cobbles.

“Draco…”

He huffed, but she got the feeling it wasn’t true annoyance. “I won’t go back to the manor,” he admitted. “And she won’t leave.”

“That sounds… difficult.” It was inadequate, she knew, but she wasn’t sure what else she could say.

“It’s fine,” Draco said, in a tone of voice that clearly indicated that was the end of that conversation. “We just have our different ways of coping.”

“Don’t we all,” said Hermione softly. And she tucked a wayward curl of hair behind her ear and followed him down into the main street.

The Hogsmeade high street was fairly quiet, most local residents safely tucked away indoors. As they made their way towards Honeydukes, Hermione spotted a movement in the shopfront they were passing.

It wasn’t unusual to see movement in the window of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes’ (which had reopened in Hogsmeade after the war), but it definitely _was_ unusual for George Weasley himself to be stood there waving specifically at Hermione through the glass.

She blanched. “Oh, no-”

Draco was instantly at her side, and Hermione tried not to feel too flattered by it. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t see George,” she said quickly, trying to scurry away. “Not today, I can’t- oh.”

The redhead slipped out of the door, coming to greet them outside the shopfront, dressed in a rather handsome violet suit and smiling cheekily. She wasn’t sure if she was imagining it, but Draco’s chest seemed to swell protectively and his hand jerked slightly closer to hers.

“Er, hey George!” she winced. “Er… How’s it going?”

“It’s going, it’s going,” George responded with a roguish grin. “I actually wanted to ask you the same thing. You know, my poor mum’s having a much harder time keeping Harry out of Ginny’s room now you’re gone.”

She cringed slightly, hands stiffening in her pockets. “I- I’m sorry.”

He wrinkled his nose at her. “Ah, I’m sure the happy couple won’t mind.” He turned his attention to Draco, who was currently trying not to look at all interested in their conversation. “I heard you’d made a new friend. Alright Malfoy?”

Draco jerked a nod in his direction with the hastiness of someone certain they were going to be at the foul end of a practical joke any time soon. Which, knowing George, was probably fair.

“I’m sorry I left so abruptly,” Hermione sighed. “It was rude.”

“So was my brother, if I remember the shouting correctly,” George smirked. Draco’s ears seemed to prick up at this. At the very least, they (and the rest of his head) rose a couple of centimetres out of the nest of his scarf.

“You heard us?!”

George snorted. “No extendable ears required. Nah, don’t worry, w- I couldn’t hear anything incriminating. Although the words ‘ _Draco sodding Malfoy’_ do come to mind.”

A flush rolled over Hermione’s cheeks as Draco’s brows rose nearly into his hairline. Now both boys were smirking at her.

“Piss off, George,” she grumbled half-heartedly. “Aren’t you supposed to be telling me off for hurting your baby brother, or something?”

He blew and popped a bubble of gum that Hermione hadn’t even noticed he was chewing. “If I know my ‘baby brother’ at all, I’d say he’s far more likely to have hurt you than the other way round,” he said placidly.

Hermione blinked rapidly, a jolt of guilt in her heart. “…What do you want, George?”

And he sighed, stepping closer. The teasing expression melted away to something a lot more sincere. “Okay. Now, don’t tell anyone that I’m being serious with you here, because it could _really_ damage my rep. _But_ … I suppose I wanted to be the first in the family to let you know that if things ever did go sour – and I’m not saying they will – but if they ever _did_ go wrong between the two of you… we’re not just going to kick you out. I know how much of a dragon my mum can be, but she loves you just as much as the rest of us. And she still would, even if you and Ron… well. I just thought you should know.”

Hermione found herself wishing for a scarf like Draco’s that she could hide her face in.

“Er, th… thank you,” she murmured, feeling desperately, bizarrely overcome at this off-the-cuff conversation outside Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes with a man in a violet suit looking for all the world like he was Willy Wonka himself.

“Alright,” said George, straightening up again, mask back in place. “Now, Malfoy, just in case people start thinking you’re only here for the pleasure of my company, you better put that considerable pureblood inheritance of yours to use and buy some of our wares.”

Hermione turned to watch Draco, who was currently trying very hard not to grin. “What would you recommend?” he asked carefully.

“For you?” said George unflinchingly. “The Debate-O-Bangle. I won’t promise anything, but maybe it’ll let you win an argument against Hermione every once in a while. If anyone can do it, I imagine it would be a Slytherin.”

And in a scenario that Hermione would have dismissed as positively ludicrous at any other time, she blushed pleasantly while Draco Malfoy and George Weasley shared a laugh.

“Nice eyebrow, by the way,” George added, and Hermione dove into the shop, cheeks flaming, mortified that she’d forgotten to change it back to its normal colour.

* * *

They exited Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes half an hour later, weighed down with trinkets and trophies of all kinds. Hermione was especially excited to try the tube of ‘ _Bubblegamort’_ that George had recommended – a new invention inspired by the olfactory properties of _Amortentia_. The gum was apparently imbued with something that made it taste like whatever enticed you most, and Hermione was very excited to see whether it indeed tasted like lemon curd, as she expected, and not as Draco teased, like the taste of library book mothballs.

She gave him a glare for that comment, but he just grinned blithely at her and popped a stick of it in his mouth before she could reprimand him.

She didn’t quite know what to make of George’s words, but there was something incredibly comforting about hearing that her difficulties with Ron didn’t extend to the rest of his family. In a way, it gave her hope that no matter what happened, she would still be able to rely on the Weasleys for support… even if she didn’t have her parents. Not that she was imagining the worst in terms of her and Ron… but it was… reassuring.

She noticed that Draco had suddenly gone rather quiet and nudged him playfully.

“What does it taste like?” she asked, grabbing a piece and popping it in her mouth. “Aristocracy?” she teased.

He scowled good-naturedly at her, making her laugh. “It actually, er… tastes like a… a Danish pastry.”

“Oh really? I didn’t realise you liked them so much,” she said, chewing thoughtfully. “Ha – told you so – it tastes of lemon curd to me. Not old books.”

“That’s exactly what someone who’s gum tasted like old books would say,” he teased, but there was a strange lack of heat in his eyes.

Searching for something else to say, Hermione blew a small bubble. “I think mine also tastes a little bit like the lash from the Christmas party, you know. Does yours have another flavour?”

He nodded, chewing silently for a while. “It’s, er… sort of like… mead,” he added softly.

Hermione had no idea why he sounded faintly embarrassed at this admission, but she decided to let it slide when he mentioned that there was somewhere else he wanted to pop into, and could they meet up again in Flourish and Blotts when he was done?

Hermione carried on to the bookstore while he diverted into a side street, and she began to lose herself amongst the shelves. She was in need of another arithmancy textbook and wanted to make sure she found the most in-depth one – which involved comparing the glossaries of about seven different lengthy tomes.

What could be a more enjoyable afternoon activity?

When Draco found her again, she was sat cross-legged on the floor with her head propped on one fist, scanning the contents page of the final book.

He smiled when he saw her. “Nearly done with…” – he lifted up one of the discarded tomes – “‘ _Arithmancy and Other Cures for Insomnia’_?”

“Almost,” she conceded, tearing herself away from the pages.

“You know,” he said after a while, a slight glint in his eye. Ah. It appeared that Mr Personality was back. “I’m very curious about what happened with you and Weasley,” he continued, and she stiffened. “About why my name came up.”

Hermione launched her gaze back down to her book as if she could find a suitable protocol for this situation in the back of ‘ _Arithmancy and its Applications, Volume Four’._

What on earth was she supposed to say?

 _I don’t want to have sex with my boyfriend, and he thinks it’s your fault_.

Ha.

There was a part of her that wanted to talk about what had happened, to let out all the frustration and confusion and hurt at her situation with Ron. But was it right to tell _Draco_?

At that moment, another customer brushed past them, and Hermione closed her book softly, getting to her feet. “I wish you hadn’t asked me that,” she admitted. “I want to tell you… But I don’t really know if I _should_.”

He considered this reply for a moment, leaning back against the bookshelves. “Alright then Granger," he said eventually. "How about a trade?”

Well, that was unexpected.

“A – a trade?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, pushing himself off the bookshelves towards her. He really was rather tall. “I’ll tell you a secret if you tell me yours.”

Hermione slid the rest of her rejected books back onto the shelf, curiosity piqued. She couldn’t deny that the prospect of Draco having a secret he was willing to share was…. Tempting. “Sounds interesting…” she murmured.

He smirked at her, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I’ll say. You’d be very interested in mine, I think.”

Her heart skittered excitedly in her chest.

She sighed. What harm could it do? It would be good to confide in someone, she reasoned. Perhaps discussing what was going wrong with her and Ron would help her sort things through? And maybe talking to him about Ron might stave off any residual attraction?

That might be a little optimistic, she realised.

She crossed the shop to the counter and paid for her selection – ‘ _Fancy_ _Arithmancy?’._

“…Okay,” she said slowly, as they made their way out of the shop. “But not now, I refuse to analyse my relationship troubles in public. How about tonight? New Year’s Eve? Oh, that reminds me, I need to pick up some Firewhiskey-”

Draco grinned wider and pulled a bottle of the aforementioned spirit out of his satchel. “I’ve already got you covered.”

Her eyes narrowed, smile twisting wryly. “You _devil_.”

His cheeks went pink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for every single comment, kudos, and bookmark! They mean the world to me <3  
> Can you guess the relevance of what Hermione and Draco can taste in the Bubblegamort?


	13. 'Millicent Bulstrode's Cat'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Due to some chapter reconfigurations, the first three quarters of this chapter will probably be familiar! Sorry about that! But please do read onto the end for new content, and to apologise, chapter fourteen is coming later today :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you start reading this, and go 'hang on, this sounds familiar?' - you'd be right! Some of my chapter lengths were running away with me, so in order to make them much more sensible, I've split some up and rearranged them. So this new chapter 13 is actually most of what was previously in 12 (but with some extra stuff, so do read on to the end!).  
> To apologise, I'll also be posting chapter 14 today!  
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> TWs situated at the end notes to avoid spoilers :)

That night, they met in the Room of Requirement.

They had left the place alone for a few days after the infamous near-miss, both clearly unwilling to be reminded of what had happened last time they sat on that lovely plum sofa. But that night, for New Year’s Eve, it felt like the perfect place.

They arrived together, entering the same way as they did before, with the small exception of asking the Room not to let anyone else in. It was nothing sordid, Hermione insisted to herself. They just didn’t want to be caught drinking alone together.

The rumour mill would certainly have fun with that one.

When they entered, Hermione noticed that the Room had changed. The hardwood floors stretched out ahead of them, but the archways of the walls seemed to have been rearranged in a way that afforded more cosiness to each section. Soft drapes hung at the high windows, and the room was warmed with the presence of a fire and an assortment of carpets. Instead of the one high-backed plum sofa, there was a number of low settees arranged in a semicircle around the fire.

It was… A little bit more lavish than Hermione had expected. But it was warmer, cosier, and came with the added bonus of a little more space between them as they settled down onto two adjacent sofas, which Hermione was rather grateful for.

For the first time since their reunion on Boxing Day, she found herself overcome with shyness. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs underneath herself on the sofa, arranging her lilac skirt about her person. Draco might have been watching her, but he had looked away by the time she was settled, so she couldn’t be sure. The fire crackled in the grate. There was an uncertain silence between them for a moment, not quite knowing exactly what the night would have in store.

Hermione’s heart began its familiar routine of acceleration.

And then, somewhere, from high up in the arched ceiling, soft music began to play. It was gentle, inoffensive – like the wizarding equivalent of late-night adult radio.

She grinned up at him, and he blushed. “I thought it was too quiet,” he mumbled, and she laughed.

And just like that, the awkwardness was over. Draco cracked open the bottle of Firewhiskey, Hermione conjured two glasses, and they set about celebrating the last day of the year.

* * *

“You’ve got to be joking,” gaped Draco, some time later, when the buzz of alcohol was warm in their veins. “ _That’s_ why Crabbe and Goyle were acting so strangely that night?”

“Mm hm,” Hermione confirmed, taking another gleeful sip of her drink. “Too bad you weren’t _actually_ the heir of Slytherin; it would have made the months spent brewing Polyjuice worthwhile.”

He groaned. “I feel like a _complete_ idiot. So, er, where were you during all this?”

She faltered, a blush creeping over her cheeks. “Oh. Um. I was still in the bathroom…”

He raised his eyebrows at her over the top of his glass. “Go on?”

She sighed resignedly. “…Polyjuiced into Millicent Bulstrode’s cat.”

And then Draco was laughing harder than she’d ever seen him, and she couldn’t help but join in, head falling forwards and shoulders shaking.

When they recovered, he was gazing at her with a strange, faraway expression in his eyes.

“Your, er, glass is empty,” she said, feeling her cheeks heat.

He gave her a grin, reached for the bottle of Firewhiskey, and tipped it straight to his lips.

“Hey,” Hermione gasped, waggling her empty glass at him. “Gross!”

He rolled his eyes and handed her the bottle. “I can _scourgify_ it for you, if you’re really that fussed.”

“I can _scourgify_ it myself if I so choose,” she said stubbornly, and he grinned. “But no, you’re right, I’m _not_ that fussed.” She lifted it to her mouth and took a long drink, her lips fizzing as if they could feel where his mouth had been, something in her chest jumping as the alcohol burned its way down. Draco watched her, his eyes on her throat, and she blushed.

“You’re thinking loudly,” she said. “Out with it.”

He cleared his throat. “There’s something I want to show you,” he said quietly.

“Is this part of your trade?” she asked, and he nodded. “Well then. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

He snorted. “Steady on. Do you… Do you remember the day we shared that textbook in the library? The first time, I mean,” he said.

She laughed, lowering the bottle and passing it back to him. “Of course. You spent the whole time telling me to get my hair out of the way.”

“It _was_ in the way,” he pointed out, smirking. “Well, do you remember what you asked me, in return for sharing the textbook?”

Hermione racked her brains but could only call to mind the memory of them arguing over who saw the textbook first. She grinned. “No. Go on, what did I say?”

And he pulled a piece of parchment out of his breast pocket. “You asked to see my ‘If I Were A Muggle’ essay. I-” He faltered minutely, his eyes falling to the parchment in his hand. “I refused. But now I’d like for you to read it. I-if you want.”

Her eyes widened to saucers.

This was the essay that had made him ask her for help in the library all those months ago.

This was the essay that had sparked confusion and anger when he had received a glowing ‘O’ grade.

This was the essay that started everything.

And if she had thought she wanted to read it back then… it was nothing compared to the way she felt now.

“Are you sure?” she breathed.

“I’m sure,” he said quietly, but he fidgeted with the essay for a moment longer, as if unable to picture himself actually handing it over.

Hermione hopped off her sofa and settled cross-legged on the floor in front of Draco, eliminating the space between them. “You know,” she laughed softly. “This is probably cheating, as far as the rules of the game go. It’s not _really_ a secret if you wanted to show it to me anyway."

He eyed her. “If you don’t want to read it, don’t.”

“ _No_ ,” she said childishly, and snatched the paper from him while he smirked. A guilty smile, a beat of understanding, and then she unfolded it softly. Draco slid off the sofa to come and join her on the floor, and she held it out so that he could see.

“It’s… more like a story, than an essay,” he admitted. “And it’s not very good, not really. It’s silly, you know, you probably don’t even want to-”

Hermione put a gentle hand on his arm. “I want to read it,” she said quietly. He looked on, teeth worrying at his lip, a rose of pink in each cheek. And she turned to the sheet of parchment, covered with unsteady handwriting, ridden with crossings-out.

She took a deep breath.

* * *

_If I were a muggle._

_If I were a muggle, I’d be seventeen. If I were a muggle, I’d be six foot two, with blond hair and grey eyes, and the name of a constellation. If I were a muggle, I would wake up every morning in a house in Wiltshire, where both of my parents would meet me for breakfast, and the morning newspaper would be delivered by a man in a postman’s hat. And I wouldn’t be afraid._

_I would be in my final year of sixth form before going on to university. I think I’d like to study chemistry there, find out how different substances interact, how things fit together. How I fit. I would have spent most of my adolescence at a secondary school, surrounded by other muggles, studying maths and literature and science, and I wouldn’t be alone._

_If I were a muggle, I would get the bus, or a car, or ride a bike to school every morning. I might play a sport with my friends at breaktime, like football, or rugby, or cricket. Something that takes place on the ground. I might join a club. I hear muggle chess isn’t all that different. I would buy food at the canteen, and listen to the radio, and write with a pen, and I’d wear a uniform, perhaps a blazer and tie. No robes in sight. If I was cold, I’d have to wear a coat, and if I was too hot, I couldn’t do anything about it, and if I left something at home, I’d just have to make do. And that would be okay._

_I wouldn’t have been raised to judge others by the purity of their birth, by the cleanliness of the blood in their veins. I wouldn’t have blindly followed what my parents told me. I wouldn’t have lost friends in an insane war that when all was said and done, never meant anything anyway._

_If I made mistakes, it would be about saying the wrong thing, about failing an A Level, or a GCSE, or about embarrassing myself in front of a girl._

_If I had nightmares… I’d wake up and know that the things I’d dreamt about weren’t actually things I’d seen._

_If I had a mark on my arm, it would be because I had paid a tattoo artist to put it there with a needle and ink. And it would have hurt, but not as much._

_And most of all, I would be free. Free of expectations. Of regrets. Of the prejudices I’m now working so hard to correct. Free of being forced to do things against my will._

_If I were a muggle, I’d still be me. But I would have had choices._

_And I would have made good ones._

* * *

Hermione didn’t realise that she was crying until a tear slipped down the curve of her cheek and splattered onto the parchment.

“Draco…” she murmured.

He was looking at her, still blushing anxiously. “Is it… okay?”

Speechless, she buried her head against his shoulder. His stiff posture soon softened at her touch, his arms coming to wind around her waist. “It’s _beautiful_ ,” she told him, pressed against his skin, her heart racing. “Merlin, if you’d have shown this to me when I asked you to… I don’t think I could have believed it was your writing.”

She straightened up, loosening her hold on him but finding herself unable to let go of the essay. “No wonder McGonagall gave you a bloody ‘Outstanding’!” she laughed, wiping her eyes. “I can’t believe you made me cry on New Year’s Eve.”

“It’s been a shitty year,” he said softly. He reached forward, and in a gesture so intimate that all Hermione could do was stare, starstruck, he brushed a tear away from her lower lashes. “Best get all your tears over and done with before midnight, if you ask me,” he murmured.

She sniffed and tried to hand the essay back to him, but he waved her off.

“Keep it,” he said. “I have another copy.”

Her lips trembled. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

She wasn’t sure quite how to recover from the emotional hit. To have read such a personal account of his experiences, written in such a raw way… It was a kind of intimacy that Hermione had never felt before, and it felt suddenly _wrong_ not be holding him. It felt like the thread of connection that had been deepening and strengthening day by day was now at the point of yanking them together, sick of them keeping their distance. It was too much. It was… _not enough_.

“You don’t need to tell me your secret if you don’t want to,” Draco said eventually, misinterpreting her tormented expression.

Oh, God. How had she forgotten?

Draco must have seen her face fall because he tentatively reached out a hand, touching her wrist. “Honestly. You don’t have to,” he said softly. “I was ready to share that essay with you, I don’t want to pressure you into revealing something you’re not-”

“I want to tell you,” she admitted, the confession bursting from her like a sigh of relief. And it was true. She did. Whether it was a good decision or not, she felt compelled to tell Draco about what had really happened at the Burrow. She didn’t know why, and she didn’t know quite how to put it into words, but her relationship with Draco had been honest from the beginning, and this thing, of all things, was probably more significant than she was giving it credit for.

She wanted to tell him everything.

A log in the fireplace hissed and popped under the flames.

One deep breath. In. Out.

She could do this. She grabbed the bottle of Firewhiskey from him and took one last gulp before turning to face him fully.

“I know I said I’d tell you what happened at Christmas, but it started a long time before that,” she admitted.

Draco remained silent, eyes fixed on her, the firelight playing dancing shadows across his skin.

“Do you remember what I told you after the Hufflepuff party?” she asked softly. “About the… _itch_?”

He made a soft noise of recognition, eyelids casting downwards as if he remembered all too well. “I remember,” he said, tentatively.

“Well… I can remember the first time it happened,” she said. “The war was over, and we had gone back to the Burrow. I remember it all felt… so anticlimactic. We’d spent a year in a _tent,_ for goodness’ sake, hunting fragments of the Dark Lord’s soul, and then we just got to… go home?”

He laughed, his fingernails tapping absently against the side of his glass.

“But when we got back, and everyone went to bed, Ron stayed up with me. We walked outside and found a bench and we talked. I guess it was the sort of, er, ‘getting together’ talk. But we ended up talking about everything, about the whole year, about his brother, about my parents… And I remember that I had been crying. I didn’t know what to do to restore their memories, and I kind of… needed comfort. But er… Ron kissed me. And, er, there was this… prickle. Like goosebumps, but not the good kind.”

His eyes were so dark as he took a sip of Firewhiskey, gaze fixed intently on her.

“It started just like that. And it wouldn’t be every time, you see. It was subtle enough, and infrequent enough, that I could ignore it. But since coming back to Hogwarts… It’s gotten worse and worse. And by Christmas, every time he so much as held my hand… it would happen. I felt so _awful_. It’s a problem with _me_ , you know, it’s not his fault. And he's always been so patient, he really has, he was so kind…” She tailed off, staring down into her glass. “It would break his heart.”

“And then it happened on Christmas day,” she continued. “And I don’t know, maybe he was tired, maybe we’d had too much to drink, or maybe it had just been going on for too long. But he finally asked me about it, and I… didn’t respond well. I think he tried to hold me, I’m not too sure,” she continued. “It’s all blurry. But I know I lost it with him. And I told him I was going back to school because we needed a break. And then…”

She clammed up, embarrassment stifling her senses.

“Hermione?”

She puffed out a long breath. Here it was. The point of no return. Anxiety thrummed into her veins. “He asked me if it had anything to do with… you.”

He blinked in stricken understanding. “Oh-”

“I shouted at him for that,” she admitted. “Which would be round about the time George heard your name. And then I stormed out, and I probably mentally scarred Harry and Ginny forever by barging into their room, but I…” She shook her head. “It was awful. I don’t even know if we’re still together.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “And I don’t know what I want anymore.”

They sat in deafening silence for a moment. Hermione turned her head to watch the flames lick up the underside of the log in the grate, her heart pounding a staccato rhythm in her chest.

“Why-” Draco cut himself off, licked his lips, tried again. “Why would he think I had something to do with it?” he whispered.

The tension thickened so instantly, it was as if she was suddenly trying to breathe through treacle, her heart stumbling under the negative pressure. “I… I don’t think I can answer that,” she said breathlessly.

She looked up at him, helpless. A lock of his hair had fallen over one eye, and she wanted to smooth it back.

“Please don’t make me answer that,” she whispered.

And he didn’t. He just kept watching her with his silent grey eyes, eyes that had seen at her worst, and her best, and a whole myriad of other infinities in between.

“I’m a cruel person,” she breathed, unable to look away. “Ron has been nothing but kind to me. He’s _wonderful_. But I can’t be what he wants me to be. And instead I end up pushing him away, and screaming at him, and demanding we take a break, and telling him not to contact me, and-”

He was so close.

“I just don’t understand,” she gasped, a bolt of clarity striking her to her core. “Why can’t I… why can’t I _want_ him… the way that I… I want y-”

Draco’s eyes widened, and his hand shot out, gripping her wrist so tightly she gasped. “Please don’t say it,” he choked.

She stared helplessly at him. It was as if the air around them had become even heavier, even more weighted, sucking at her lungs like a tide with every breath. She couldn’t look away, and suddenly she found herself wondering how long he’d had those two tiny pale freckles on the bridge of his nose, and how she’d never seen that tiny streak of light blue in his eyes before, and when exactly she had gotten close enough to notice.

“Why not?” she said raggedly, adrenaline roaring in her veins. She was dizzy, untethered.

“Because I…” He swallowed thickly, the column of his throat bobbing. “I don’t think you know what it’ll do to me,” he whispered, so softly that she nearly missed it.

Her heart was pumping fit to leap out of her chest. The Firewhiskey was burning in her mouth and her throat and her belly, and somehow even lower still.

And his eyes were burning just the same.

Her gaze fell, unbidden and inevitable, to his lips.

“Draco,” she breathed.

And then his hand was in her hair and those beautiful, desperate lips were on hers.

And there, on the floor of the Room of Requirement, in front of a blazing fire, as the clock ticked to midnight of the last day of the most tumultuous year of her life, with her arms slung around the neck of a boy she was supposed to hate, Hermione realised that there was so much still she didn’t know.

Because this moment contained a world, no, scratch that, an entire _universe_ of things she had never felt before.

It was touch, and it was heat, and it was pure, raw sensation, with Draco’s strong hands against her skin and his body against her own, a pressure that lifted her higher than a kite and every bit as giddy. Her hands clenched in his shirt, pulling him closer still, desperate and unapologetic in her gasped breaths and furious kisses. His lips were just as soft as they looked, but there was an electrifying firmness in the slide of his tongue and the hand in her hair that she felt all the way down to her toes, a sort of endless static shock that had her mouth leaking traitorous noises, her fingers winding into his soft, soft hair, her body melding to his like the spill of syrup.

It was fiery, more fiery still than the alcohol, and Hermione was immediately, irrevocably consumed by it.

He gasped out a vulnerable breath and chased her lips as if she was his only hope of oxygen. His hand, _Draco’s hand_ , was against her thigh, the warmth of it surging through her skirt, every tiny action potential of every tiny cell in his body fizzing through into her bones like a livewire. It was as if he had been waiting for this very moment, and he was determined to put every stitch of his being into this kiss, this one, perfect kiss.

_Was this how it was always meant to feel?_

And then Draco’s fingertips skidded onto her waist, brushed the delicate underside of her lowermost rib, and her breath hitched, and she could think of nothing else but _more_.

She clutched at him, nails raking along his scalp, and he let out a noise like a wounded man, pressing her back against the seat of the sofa with breath that stuttered and rushed between desperate, all-consuming kisses. Hermione could feel his desire like a tangible thing, and it made the strangest feeling rise up inside her in response, like all at once she wanted to own him, and be owned by him, over and over and over until she wasn’t quite sure where she ended and he began.

And maybe that was where the unflinching boldness came from, when Draco’s fingers scrabbled at the top button of her shirt, where all she could do was gasp ‘ _yes’_ against his mouth, succumbing entirely to the intoxicating press of his hands against her skin and the pumping of blood in her veins.

For the first time ever, her brain didn’t know words. There was only a desperate, primitive kind of _want,_ a longing to touch, to taste, to feel… And when she arched into him, the hard planes of his body flush with every inch of her, she realised she could feel the undeniable physicality of his arousal against her hip. But it didn’t fill her with dread. Instead there was nothing but an anticipation, no, a _desire_ , to see him and feel him, against her, _within her_ …

And then he dipped to kiss at her neck, lips pressing right at the same spot that Ron always used to, and-

 _Ron_.

Oh, God.

Her body stiffened with shock, and Draco froze in alarm. “A-are you okay?” he asked breathlessly, his pupils dilated and eyes wide, skin flushed.

There was a roaring in Hermione’s ears, as if she was struggling to hear her own thoughts. _Fuck_. How could she-

She scrambled away from him, hands trembling as she tried to redo the top button of her shirt, chest heaving. “I’m so sorry, Draco, I didn’t- I shouldn’t have, I mean – you – I – I _couldn’t_ , not with Ron, I just…”

“Hermione-” he pleaded, but she had already grabbed her cloak and her wand, struggling to calm herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said, with as much composure as she could manage through her firing pulse and her trembling voice. “I… This can’t happen again,” she breathed.

And before she could change her mind at the look of hurt and confusion in his eyes, she turned on her heel and ran.

* * *

Hermione’s life was starting to feel like a peeling oil painting.

Just when she thought she understood what was going on around her, another layer of paint would flake away, and she would be left confronting what was really underneath.

The itch – a sign that something wasn’t right. Her friendship with Draco – an undeniable attraction. And her relationship with Ron – a friendship that mattered so much that calling it anything less than love might cause it to cease altogether.

And Hermione was beginning to worry that she was a coward for forever running from those truths.

After that fateful night in the Room of Requirement, she had well and truly given into her fear, racing back to the Gryffindor Tower and ensconcing herself within the safe curtains of her four-poster bed. At some point, she would stop being melodramatic, and at some point, she would make a plan, and at some point, she would work out how to go about her daily life knowing that she was unrestrainedly attracted to Draco Malfoy, and that kissing him had been the most exhilarating thing she’d ever experienced–

Stop.

For now… she needed to consider in equal parts the sheer joy, and the sheer terror of what had just taken place. And the way she had run.

She burrowed underneath her duvet, feeling very much like a coward, but at least a warm and safe one at that.

She would not cry.

Thank goodness it wasn’t long until term restarted.

* * *

Hermione didn’t contact Draco over the next few days, and he made no attempt to speak to her either. They orbited within the same solar system, but only distantly, as if they were satellites resolutely turning their gazes elsewhere.

Regardless, every glimpse of him sent static fizzing down to her fingertips, remembering all too well the pure magic that had been those fleeting moments with her hands on his body and her lips against his. It sent her heart to thumping at the slightest memory, and yet it would plummet in her chest at the inevitable reminder of the look on his face when she had run.

Even after the initial shock wore off, the extent of what had happened between them terrified her. It was like her attraction to him had snuck up on her very suddenly, and now it was here for good, tipping even the most ordinary of thoughts or actions into a riot of confusion and uncertainty. And through it all was the guilt of how she had left things with Ron – the fear of not knowing where they were, what they would be…

She was so much of an emotional mess that she couldn’t begin to process it all. Instead, she spent her nights staring up at the hangings above her bed with memories and fears leaking from her wide eyes in place of tears, replaying and replaying until they were dry and sore and the only thing she could hear was the sound of her own heart. Numbness. That’s what it was.

She would not cry.

The only thing she could think to do to regain some semblance of equilibrium was to give herself some space. A bit of time and distance would help her get back to the Hermione she knew best, the Hermione that was happy enough with a boyfriend she didn’t want to touch, the Hermione she could trust not to go drinking too much Firewhiskey and kissing a beautiful, dangerous boy, no matter what beautiful, dangerous words he said.

And so the last few days before the start of term saw her throw herself into schoolwork, getting a head start on N.E.W.T. preparations. Thankfully Draco seemed to be avoiding the library, so she was able to settle down at their table each morning without fear of being disturbed, and work late into the night, breaking only to sneak down to the kitchens for food. However as productive as she was, she couldn’t help but miss having him there with her, making comments about her hair or trying to ask questions about his homework without letting on that he wanted her help.

She missed him, already.

It had been three days.

And what was worse than that, was that it had taken her until that moment to realise she hadn’t missed Ron at all.

* * *

All too soon, it was the last day of the holidays.

The anticipation of having Ron return to school, and the impending conversation about exactly what had happened to their relationship, and where they were supposed to go from here, had kept Hermione feeling as if she was on high-alert all day.

Unfortunately, the setting of the sun did absolutely nothing to change this status, and so finally, at one o’clock in the morning, after tossing and turning for several hours, Hermione slid her feet out of bed and decided to go wandering.

The passageways of the castle were freezing with only a knitted jumper on over her pyjamas, but a warming charm thankfully did the trick. It was just as well the castle was operating on such limited staff, she thought, because it gave her an excuse not to cast a disillusionment. As brazen as she knew she was, it was as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to care. The numbness made sure of that.

The portraits tried to talk to her, as they quite often did, but she didn’t feel in the mood to entertain them, not tonight. It dawned on her, as she rather deliberately turned a corner and approached the main staircase, that it felt like there was something she needed to do.

Before she knew it, she had reached the third floor, turned onto a corridor, taken a left, and-

There.

The muggle studies artifact room.

Cotton wool bloomed in her throat, but she clenched against it. _She would not cry_.

The artifact room was every bit the mess it had been at the start of the year. Clearly it hadn’t been considered a priority. The damage, the destruction, the hate, the cruelty – it was all still there, spelled out in an alphabet of broken glass, twisted metal, and burnt plastic.

Her feet carried her forwards before her mind could protest.

It was cold again.

She lifted a suddenly trembling hand to point her wand at the only recognisable piece in the room. The broken-off corner of the Hackney cab license plate.

“ _R-reparo_ ,” she whispered shakily.

Nothing.

_She would not cry._

But as she lowered herself to sit, suddenly miniscule compared to the landscape of destruction, it was becoming increasingly hard to maintain that mantra.

Her fingers trailed through the dust.

The muggle artifact room had been destroyed by someone who wanted to erase the existence of people like her from history. People who didn’t belong. The artifact room had been razed to the ground.

And it still hadn’t been declared important enough to warrant fixing. Not yet.

And that knowledge sat in her heart like one of the thousands of shards of glass around her. Hermione couldn’t let brokenness lie. She was a _fixer_.

So why then, she couldn’t help but think, did she not want to fix things between her and Ron?

Was there a chance that their relationship had bloomed out of hardship, of closeness, of desperation? She knew that she had never felt as close to him as she did in that tent last year, so needed by him, so needing of him. And now the pressure was off, their horizons had expanded, the harsh concrete was gone…

Other flowers had bloomed.

It didn’t feel… special anymore.

It felt like Ron was…

Like he was always meant to be…

A friend.

The dawning realisation grew in her chest like an ache, bowing her shoulders in on themselves, her arms wrapping around her torso to try and hold it in.

She couldn’t let go of her determination to fix the castle.

She couldn’t let go of her affection for Draco.

She couldn’t let go of her grief for her parents.

But it was cruelly, _devastatingly_ easy to let go of Ron.

Her heart jolted.

Oh God, her _parents_.

Where would they be now? Hermione had changed their names, had implanted that false dream, that desire to go running away to Australia… She had erased her very existence from the minds of the people that had brought her into the world. Even after all of that, there was no real guarantee that they had made it out. And even if they had…

Well. Hermione knew magic. She knew she wielded a deadly weapon.

If, by some miracle, she was able to track them down… If, by another miracle, they gave her enough time of day to listen to her explain, and allow her to try and heal them… And if, by the largest miracle of them all, the damage was reversible…

There was a chance that they’d never want anything to do with her after what she’d done to them.

She missed them _so much_.

And it was there, in what was once an artifact room displaying the wonders of the world Hermione had grown up in and loved so fiercely, that she finally, at last, allowed herself to fall to pieces.

It was like she had forgotten how good it felt to cry.

For a few minutes, she could give in fully to the fear that she was lonely, and broken, and misunderstood, and cry it all out before her logical brain took hold again and coaxed her back into composure.

And so she sat in the middle of the dirt and the wreckage and the carnage and sobbed.

It was pathetic, and miserable, and ugly, but it was also the catharsis that she had been so desperately craving. A few minutes to be alone, a few minutes not to have to hold herself together. She could simply allow herself to feel the loneliness and wretchedness that trickled through her veins as they were meant to be felt – strongly, briefly, and only transiently.

She lay her head back against the remains of what may once have been a wooden display case, and let the tears stream down her face, breath coming in ugly gasps.

And it was wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for moderate alcohol consumption and possible non-sexual infidelity, depending on how you interpret Ron and Hermione being 'on a break'. I do not condone this in the slightest, but feel it is important to the story.
> 
> Alright, now the serious bit is over, I really hope you liked this chapter! It was a beast to write but I loved it so much.
> 
> Thank you for reading, sorry for messing about with the chapters at this stage, and thank you so so much for the response to this fic, it's honestly blown me away!


	14. 'Nothing But Time'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here's part two of the sort-of-double-update!  
> I know I said I wouldn't be updating until Wednesday but... surprise!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for messing the chapter content about, I hope this update makes up for it! :D  
> If you skipped over chapter 13, you may want to read the last quarter of it in order for this one to make sense!  
> Thank you once again for reading!

Of course it was too good to last.

Hermione heard the crunch of glass behind her and whirled around, expecting to see a Professor walking in with their wand aloft.

But like the world’s most ironic joke, her eyes alighted instead on the person she was the least prepared to see.

Draco was stood uncertainly in the doorway to the artifact room, his brows lifted in shock.

Her heart clenched in her chest.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, horrified. She wiped a sleeve over her eyes and readjusted the lay of her jumper across her chest. Somehow she was more embarrassed at being caught in her pyjamas than the fact she had been crying.

Draco’s normally upright posture was hidden by hunched shoulders and an expression of nervous unease, as if he wasn’t too sure whether he should be there at all. His hands were held stiffly at his sides, clenched into decisive fists, and he couldn’t quite meet her eyes.

“I… I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise-” he said carefully, moving steadily towards her as if she was a wild animal, liable to startle any moment. “I just… heard you…”

“Crying,” she said shortly.

“Well, yes,” he said. He relaxed his hands only to clench them again.

The air fizzed in between them like television static. Hermione couldn’t stop thinking about the last time they’d been in a room alone together at this time of night, and her skin flushed with heat at the memory.

Her realisation about Ron had made this a million times harder.

“Are you okay?” he asked, words tumbling out in a rush.

She stared at him for a while. Her cheekbone itched in the wake of a drying tear, and she rubbed it absently. She felt compelled to be honest with him in a way that was entirely unfamiliar, and yet so natural to her that she couldn’t resist it.

“I am,” she said. “I mean, obviously not right now. But I am.”

Draco’s eyebrows creased with concern, and she sighed and got to her feet, brushing herself off. He flushed slightly at the sight of her crumpled sleepwear.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked, again.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted.

“Well,” she said softly. “I suppose that makes two of us.”

“We should talk,” he said, then frowned rather suddenly, as if surprised by the words that had come out of his mouth.

Hermione’s pulse skyrocketed. “I don’t-”

“Wait,” he insisted. “I have to… apologise.”

Eyes wide, she watched as he made his way towards her, picking his way through the debris. When he settled, about a metre away from her, he finally met her gaze, and the look in his grey eyes sent a jolt through her with the velocity of an electric shock.

“Hermione,” he sighed. “I… am _so_ sorry.”

“Dra-”

“No, please, let me finish,” he said quickly. There was a controlled mask poised over his features, but behind it, his eyes were pleading. “I’m not… very good at this,” he admitted. “But you… your…” he sighed, giving up on that sentence. “ _This_ means a lot to me.”

Hermione had the stifling sensation that someone had reached into her chest and pinched her heart directly between their fingertips.

“And I don’t think I could forgive myself if I’ve… if I messed it up,” he said finally, looking down at his smart brown shoes amid the broken glass. “You confided in me, and I took advantage, and I’m _so sorry_.”

She didn’t know what to say. Thoughts were flurrying dizzyingly in her head like a snowstorm, blanketing her momentary clarity in silvery white.

Draco wasn’t entirely to blame. He had to know that. And even though inertia cloaked her tongue, she needed him to understand, needed to… apologise.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m sorry too,” she admitted. “I… I should have talked to you, rather than just, running off, and I… I shouldn’t have avoided you, and-”

Relief flooded his features. “It’s okay,” he said in a rush.

“Still,” she said. “I made this harder for both of us. So I - I’m sorry.”

And he nodded, uttering a soft ‘thank you’ as if he was glad for the apology, but didn’t want to dwell further on the subject.

There was a beat of silence.

And then a guilty smile made its way onto his face. “I’m just so glad you’re talking to me again.”

She couldn’t help herself from laughing then, and the look on his face made everything worth it. Her heart swelled in her chest, relief and joy buttering the sides of her lungs.

She pushed her hair away from her face and wiped again at her eyes, where her eyelashes had clumped together, with an embarrassed laugh. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she mumbled.

His eyebrows creased again. “Are you sure everything’s alright?”

“I just…” she tailed off, toeing idly at a lump of wood on the floor. “Everything got a bit too much. The castle… My parents… Ron…”

 _You_ …

She coughed against the unspoken words. “I just needed a good cry, I think. And this room always… hurts the most.”

He looked at her in stricken understanding. “It used to be full of muggle artifacts, didn’t it?”

She nodded silently, hoping he wouldn’t ask her anything further. Tears were closer than she’d like them to be.

One of his hands lifted, then dropped again rapidly. “Can I do anything?” he asked eventually, so sincerely that Hermione wanted desperately to wrap her arms around him.

“No,” she breathed. “But thank you.”

They stared at one another. That fateful tension was back again, crinkling in the air and heating her skin.

She pulled distractedly at her pyjamas, and he blushed slightly again. “I’m sorry I disturbed you,” he said.

The castle was so quiet around them.

And suddenly Hermione realised that she needed to say goodbye to Ron.

Because she didn’t want to say goodbye to Draco.

“Are you maybe up for another club meeting tomorrow night?” she asked hurriedly.

And relief lifted the corners of his lips. “Please.”

The tension eased, melted, dripped over her skin like honey.

“You know I-” She bit her lip. “I’m glad we sorted this out before the start of term.”

Maybe…

If she had made her decision about Ron…

Then maybe…

She could…

“Me too,” he told her, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m so glad we can go back to normal. Er, you know, Pansy’s coming back to Hogwarts, and-”

_Oh._

_Pansy_.

The honey crystallised, pinched at her skin.

The snowfall stopped.

Her brain was silent.

“Oh,” she said.

His eyes lifted to hers, but she refused to meet them. Couldn’t meet them.

“I see,” she said. “Well, er, that makes sense.”

He frowned. “I didn’t mean-”

“No, I understand,” she assured him, biting at her lower lip. Beautiful Pansy, Slytherin Pansy, Draco’s maybe-girlfriend Pansy was coming back to Hogwarts, with her shared history and lived experiences, and her flawless image that wouldn’t let her be seen dead sobbing in a room of broken muggle artifacts.

Of course Draco would want the two of them to go back to the way they were before, return to their easy, uncomplicated friendship. It made sense. It was the right decision.

“Um. I should go to bed,” she said. “Thank you for… this.”

He watched her with confused eyes as she stepped around him, hands hidden in sleeves, arms folded to her chest.

“Hermione, if I’ve done something to upset you-”

“No,” she said quickly. She unfolded minutely and managed a light touch to his arm, a touch so much emptier and airier than normal, a touch that didn’t even begin to soothe the ache inside her. A touch that was miles away from the electric heat of New Year’s Eve.

“You haven’t done anything,” she whispered. “Goodnight, Draco.”

And she managed what she hoped was a comforting smile before she had to whip her head away and set off for the dormitories again, a lump straining in her throat.

The smile barely held until she reached the doorway.

* * *

Thankfully, the chaos of the start of term helped take her mind off all the swirling uncertainties she was struggling to pin down.

The Hogwarts Express puffed into the station the next afternoon, offloading the noisy rabble that turned the castle from a ghost town into a boarding school once more. The hallways were immediately full of laughter and spellwork, the great hall was jam-packed, and all the good seats in the common room already seemed to be occupied.

The moment that Hermione had been longing for, had been dreading, arrived that evening in the common room.

Ron’s kind eyes met hers over the top of an armchair.

Outside, she was sure her face held its poise. But inside she was folding, crumpling in on herself like balled up paper. For a moment, for one long moment, she had been sure that ending things with Ron was the right thing to do. And then, one sentence from Draco later, her horizons had crashed down around her ears, and she was ready to scurry back to the comfort and familiarity of the boy she had grown up with. She wasn’t ready to make a decision like this.

_I need more time._

And so she had simply stared, unflinching, impassive, and his eyes had softened with understanding.

A gentle smile, a nod of his head, and then he had turned away.

And his kindness, his patience, his love… It made the guilt hurt all the more.

Through it all, Hermione couldn’t be more happy to have Ginny and Parvati back at school with her, Parvati full of tales from her time in Kochi with her grandparents, and Ginny full of quiet excitement that when questioned, turned out to be due to certain _new_ developments in her and Harry’s relationship.

When they had a moment alone, Ginny folded Hermione in a strong hug and told her that she didn’t have to talk about what had happened with Ron if she didn’t want to, but if she did, she would always have someone ready to listen. Hermione was already on the point of weepiness, and then an extra box of fudge was unveiled as a gift from Molly – “It’s to say she forgives you for leaving so suddenly,” explained Ginny – and Hermione had to dive off the bed to find a tissue, suddenly overcome.

Emotions held an entirely different weight when she had friends to share them with. Instead of finding them gloomy and oppressive, Hermione found herself becoming more determined, more focused. She threw herself into her studies, reading at a formidable pace, finishing all her N.E.W.T. textbooks for the third time and managing some extra research on joining and woodwork in between.

Interactions with Draco in the South Wing on Monday night had been strained, but only mildly so. They had the Fixer-Upper work to keep them busy, filling up the gaps of uncertain silence. The looming realisation that they likely didn’t have long until the Professors made a start on the South Wing had them attacking their mammoth task with even more speed and determination than ever before.

Hermione was even managing to convince herself that the strength of the urge to be near Draco had decreased.

But at mealtimes, she often found herself missing his presence. Every so often she’d find herself looking up mid-meal, expecting to see him grinning back at her, only for something to pull sharply in her gut when she realised she was surrounded only by Gryffindors.

Pansy was… an interesting new addition to the student population. She was quiet, withdrawn, and tight-lipped, never so much as turning her head in the corridors. She had been allotted a variety of ‘tutors’ by McGonagall to catch her up on all the work she’d missed last term, which meant that during the first week back, Hermione spotted her in the library several times, working with Susan, Anthony, and even Parvati, but at lunchtimes she could always be found next to Draco at the Slytherin table, smiling at him in a beaten-down sort of way. Draco didn’t talk about her at all, despite Hermione’s attempts to find out more about their relationship when they met on Monday night, but the conflicted look in his eyes left her pretty sure that it boiled down to some kind of unrequited longing.

It made perfect sense that Draco had wanted to return his and Hermione’s relationship to normal before Pansy returned to Hogwarts, free to pursue her once more. Clearly, he knew the kiss had been a mistake, an instinct-driven departure from rational thought, and who was Hermione to argue with that? It had been nothing but two people coming together in a time of loneliness and need.

One day, she knew it would be much easier to forget about the feel of Draco’s lips on hers and the sensation of his arousal against her body, two things that she had barely been able to stop thinking about since it happened. This stupid, flurrying, temporary attraction to Draco would fade.

It didn’t mean anything, after all. It was just chemicals.

Strong chemicals.

* * *

It was Saturday, and Hermione was missing Harry.

Keeping her distance from Ron all week had had the unfortunate side effect of also keeping her distance from the friend that had been her lifeline last year.

It was hard to put her relationship with Harry into words.

They were probably about as close as two people who had no interest in dating the other could possibly be. There was something very special about it. It was like he was the brother she always wanted. She knew that he’d always be there for her, and the years had proven that no amount of time apart could diminish their easy affection and support for one another.

It was a friendship that flowed in a whole other universe to romance, and Hermione wasn’t sure that Ron would ever understand it, but at least he’d slowly come to terms with the fact that just because she cared deeply for Harry didn’t mean she was secretly planning to run away with him.

And even this year, even with their hearts and their priorities and their motivations in slightly different places, they had still taken care of one another in small ways. If Hermione missed dinner, holed up in the library, he would bring her a sandwich and a slice of treacle tart. If he was running behind on homework, she would spell-check his essays and conveniently leave textbooks open in the common room at the precise pages she knew he would need.

It was a friendship that had transcended even this school year, where they shared only a handful of classes, he was often busy with Ginny, and Hermione was preoccupied with the Fixer-Upper club.

It meant a lot to her.

But now that Hermione was especially aware of all the times she couldn’t go and chat to him, it pulled at her like an unravelling thread.

So when she was sat alone at the Gryffindor table on the first Saturday of term, thoughtfully stirring a mug of tea, her heart leaped gratefully in her chest at the sight of Harry heading towards her, unaccompanied by Ginny or Ron.

“Hey Hermione,” he said, sliding onto the bench next to her. “You alright?”

She took a sip of tea and pushed an almond croissant towards him, which he accepted with a grin. “Not bad,” she answered with a smile. “It’s good to see you. It feels like I haven’t seen you in ages!”

“Tell me about it,” he grinned. “We’ve been busy, haven’t we?”

“Far too busy,” she agreed. “Who would have guessed that seven N.E.W.T.s would rob me of a social life?”

He snorted through a bite of croissant. “Not you, clearly.”

They both laughed softly, Hermione idly tearing a piece of toast into incrementally smaller pieces. “I should apologise,” she said gently. “I shouldn’t have stormed in on you and Ginny like that at the Burrow. I’m sorry.”

He gulped down a bite of croissant. “S’fine,” he mumbled. “You didn’t interrupt… much.”

“Still,” she smirked. “I didn’t mean to traumatise you. I just… my head was elsewhere.”

He chewed silently for a moment. “About that,” he said.

She cringed internally.

“I wanted to ask if everything’s alright,” he continued. “I mean, obviously not, because you and Ron aren’t speaking, and he’s… well, he’s a bit of a mess, to tell you the truth. But are _you_ doing alright?”

She set her toast back on the plate. “I… I’m okay,” she answered, wiping crumb-laden hands off on a napkin. “I’m sure you’ve gathered by now that we had a – a falling out. And I, er, I needed some space to myself.”

“Did you find that back at Hogwarts?”

She closed her eyes. “I think so. I am okay, I promise.” She took a breath. “Things are just… harder this year. For me.”

“Is it your parents?” he asked, never one for subtlety.

She gave him the tiniest of nods, but it was enough. He understood.

On the other side of the room, movement caught Hermione’s eye. She watched as Parvati sank reluctantly down onto a bench at the Slytherin table, where Pansy was sat with her head on her fist, staring down at a textbook. As she caught her eye, Parvati looked up, winked, and mouthed ‘ _help me’_.

It appeared the tutoring was going well.

“If you ever want to talk about it, you know… I know what that feels like. For, er, Hogwarts to be your only home,” said Harry softly, pulling Hermine’s attention back to him.

She took hold of his hand and squeezed, falling into him a little. “It’s lonely,” she admitted, and he nodded steadily.

“It can be,” he said, and in that moment, Hermione realised for the first time that Harry probably knew better than anyone else what it was to feel the loss of one’s parents. He was always so sturdy, so put-together, that she often forgot.

“Can I ask… how you deal with it?” she whispered. “Not having your mum and dad?”

He set his croissant down for good, studying the table. “I mean I… I never knew them, so it’s a little different, but, er… I suppose I… find times that I can think about them, times I can miss them. And I let myself feel it then… and otherwise, well, it doesn’t do me any good to dwell on it, so I…” He pushed his glasses further up his nose. “I try to keep the missing them in those moments, so it doesn’t leak out into everything else.”

Hermione’s eyes softened. “Is it hard this year?” she asked.

He swallowed there, unwilling to meet her eyes. “I think,” he said slowly, “that not having bigger things to worry about… makes it harder.” And then he laughed softly, rubbing absent-mindedly at his scar in that way he often did, the way Hermione thought he probably wasn’t aware of. “One minute you’re fighting for your life and you don’t even have time to think about what you’re going to eat for dinner, and then… you have nothing _but_ time.”

Hermione laughed. “I know exactly what you mean.”

They smiled at one another.

“Hey,” said Harry, after a moment. “As _your_ friend, I’m glad you’re doing alright…”

She grinned.

“But as Ron’s friend…” he continued, and Hermione felt her heart sink. “Please, will you talk to him soon? I know he’s pretending to be fine, but he’s… driving me crazy.”

Sighing, she pushed her plate away. “I will. When I’m ready.” She turned to him again. “I’m sorry you got caught up in this.”

He shrugged. “I just want you both to be alright.”

She softened into a smile. And that was enough.

* * *

She decided she would talk to Ron that evening.

As soon as she made up her mind, her heart began drumming in her chest, adrenaline firing through every pulse point. Her palms were slick, her throat as stuffy as a mothball, but she was determined.

Ron deserved honesty. And although she felt that wouldn’t be ready for this conversation in a hundred years, she knew it was what she had to do.

She didn’t know exactly what she wanted.

But it was time to own up to the things she knew she didn’t want.

She got some funny looks as she sat outside the portrait hole after dinner, watching as students returned from the great hall, chattering and laughing and gossiping about the events of the first week back at school.

Harry and Ginny were first back, hand in hand and discussing something in low, gentle tones. They stopped to chat but Hermione waved them on with a smile.

‘ _Good luck,’_ mouthed Ginny, and Hermione smiled with far more enthusiasm than she really felt.

Parvati was next, so deep in thought that she barely seemed to notice Hermione at first. When she realised, she dropped to a crouch to give her a reassuring hug.

“Are you doing what I think you’re doing?” she asked, and Hermione nodded.

“Wish me luck.”

“Be brave,” Parvati whispered, squeezing her hand.

“Can I come and debrief with you later?” Hermione asked. “I think I’m going to need a hug.”

“Always,” she replied, smiling widely at her. “We’ll have a proper catch-up?”

“Please,” laughed Hermione, and with a last exchange of smiles, Parvati turned and crawled through the portrait hole.

After that were what felt like hundreds of unknown younger Gryffindors. Streams of black and red passed her one by one until she felt that she must have missed Ron after all, and then she heard a set of footsteps stop, and she looked up.

Seamus and Dean exchanged a look and headed on into the portrait hole, leaving Ron standing there alone wearing an earnest attempt at a hopeful expression.

“Ron,” she said, stumbling to her feet. “Do you- have you got time to talk?” The drums in her chest were back, crackling through into her voice.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he admitted, a small smile at the corner of his lips. “Shall we go for a walk?”

* * *

Hermione let him lead the way apart from a couple of moments where it looked as if he was heading towards either the South Wing or the Room of Requirement. She was having a hard enough time keeping her wires straight in her head, without bringing her complications with Ron into the places she shared with Draco.

“How’s your first week back been?” she asked, as they steered towards the main staircase. Their hands swung by their sides, stricken with the obvious lack of contact.

“Not bad,” he said. There was a pause, and then as if he couldn’t help himself, he blurted out, “I missed you.”

She blinked hard, unable to find the words for a moment.

There was a silence as they walked.

“I… I’m so sorry to have left things the way I did,” she said finally, when she could take it no more. “And for not being ready to talk to you last weekend, I- I panicked. And I’m so sorry,” she said, staring at the floor in front of her.

“I forgive you,” said Ron, immediately, and for some bizarre reason, it only made the guilt slice deeper into her chest. “I was… wrong. I was rude to you, so I can understand why-”

“Please-” she cut herself off abruptly, biting her lip. “Please don’t make excuses for me,” she said softly.

There was a dead silence, struck only by the sound of their shoes on the stone.

“I panicked,” she said. “I was immature, and I lashed out at you, and I didn’t even acknowledge what I’d done to get us to that point.”

He stopped walking, looking straight ahead. “It doesn’t matter,” he insisted. “I want this to work.”

Agitation bubbled at her lips. “But it does matter,” she said. “I need you to know that I did stuff wrong too, that I’m not perfect-”

“But I forgive you for it,” he said, as if it was easy as that, and Hermione couldn’t tell whether she wanted to laugh or cry.

“No, Ron,” she said. “I wasn’t honest with you. I should have been, all along, but I was too busy being scared.”

He considered this for a moment, then spotted a bench at the side of the corridor and beckoned her towards it, where they sat awkwardly. Hermione couldn’t look away from her hands, fiddling with a hairband around her wrist.

“Okay,” he said gently. “Be honest with me. I’m listening.”

_Be honest with me._

_How hard could it be?_

There were a million and one things she could say.

_I don’t know if I’m attracted to you._

_I’m not sure whether I want to be in a relationship anymore._

_I kissed Draco Malfoy._

And in the end, she gathered it all in, chewed it up, and sighed out the one thing it all boiled down to.

“Ron, I…”

He looked at her, his eyes so innocent, so kind.

“I don’t want to have sex with you.”

The silence seemed to echo around the corridor, into every crevice and line of the stone walls around them. Ron’s lips parted.

And then it all came out, a pouring, cascading confession that Hermione couldn’t possibly curtail. “I want to enjoy it,” she whispered. “I really, really do. But any time we come close to it, it just feels… wrong. And it started off subtly, and it got worse, and worse, and I always thought that it would just go away, but it hasn’t. It won’t. So even though I – I love you, and I care about you so much, I don’t want anything physical, and I don’t want to keep ignoring the way I feel about it because it’s not fair on you. And I don’t know what it means about our relationship, or what I want, but I know that it all comes down to this. I don’t think I want to… try anything more with you. And I’m scared that I never will. And if that means that you can’t be with me-”

She gasped to a stop, heart beating so fast it was little more than a buzz in her chest. Her throat was so strained it was a wonder she could breathe at all, panting around boulders of grief and guilt and shame.

Ron had watched her, had listened to every word unflinchingly. His face was calm, but there was a tightness in the curve of his fingers, and a tension in his shoulders that told Hermione he was a livewire of nervous energy just waiting for an outlet. She was sure he would lose his cool, would explode like he always did, would shout at her for keeping the truth from him-

“Okay,” he said.

Confusion trickled through her body like a disillusionment charm.

“What?”

“Okay,” he repeated. “That’s okay.”

Her mind roiled. “I- I don’t-”

Ron let out a deep, slow exhale, turned to her, and laid his hands down on the bench between them, inches away from her fingers.

“Maybe,” he said slowly. “We’re just not meant to do that. At least – not yet.”

Uncertainty zinged in her chest, her heart accelerating once more.

“I can wait,” he said. “However long it takes. This thing means _so_ much more to me than that. _You_ mean so much more to me.”

“But what if it doesn’t work?” she whispered.

“Then it doesn’t work,” he answered. “Look, I know I messed up at Christmas. I _know_ that. But I love you, and that doesn’t have anything to do with whether we… sleep together, or not. So I want to try this again – the right way. And we won’t do _anything_ that you’re not comfortable with. I don’t want that.”

The hairband snapped in Hermione’s grasp.

“But please, let’s give this one more go. For me,” said Ron, looking so gently at her that her eyelids threatened to spill carefully held tears. “And you know, maybe over time it’ll get easier. And even if it doesn’t, it’ll still be worth it. I want to make this work.”

_Oh, Ron._

“Please,” he said. “Can we try again?”

It was beautiful, and heartfelt, and wonderful, and _so not what she wanted_.

But really, said a little voice at the back of her mind, what did she have to lose? If she agreed, she got to keep the boy that she had been able to depend on for the last few years. She wouldn’t lose his friendship. He would stop trying to kiss her, trying to touch her, stop all those little things that set her teeth on edge and itched at her skin like static. Instead, they would go back to normal. To the side of her relationship with Ron that she really did like. Really did… love.

And Draco-

Draco was nothing, she told herself.

Draco was an afterthought. He didn’t have anything to do with her and Ron’s relationship. When she took Draco out of the equation, all she had left was a relationship strained by a mismatch in desires. That was the only thing wrong, wasn’t it? And so this offer, this plan… it provided an opportunity to right that mismatch. And they’d all go back to normal.

After all, Pansy was back at Hogwarts.

Draco was an unknown, arresting and fiery and interested in someone else, and Ron was everything familiar, everything comfortable. He offered a sort of security that Hermione was genuinely scared to be without.

And Pansy was back at Hogwarts.

One more chance. And if it all fell through again… _Then_ she would be brave. But for now…

Hermione would let the coward within her win, one last time.

She placed a shaking hand in Ron’s and tried to banish the thought of slate grey eyes from her mind. “Okay,” she whispered.

* * *

When she told Parvati, the shorter girl wrapped her in her arms, silent and supportive.

When she told Ginny, the younger girl beamed, told Hermione she was glad, and cracked open a celebratory chocolate frog.

Neither of them spoke much, offering solid, tactile comfort over insubstantial words and promises. They all knew how close things had been to a very different outcome, and it was as if talking too much about it might just tip it towards such a fate. So they stayed light, and gentle, and Hermione didn’t doubt for a minute that they understood.

She just wished she could tell them about Draco.

* * *

“I sorted things out with Ron,” she said.

The words seemed to drop flat and dead on the floor before her.

Draco’s body stiffened, his wand stilling from where he’d been realigning a pipe back into the stone. It was Sunday night, and Hermione had been desperate to see him, though she wasn’t quite sure why.

“Oh,” he said softly. “That’s good.”

“Mm,” she said. She sent a flare up into the ceiling, where she was rewarded with a huge cracking noise and a shake of the floor. A _Flipendo_ , she assumed. Draco barely looked up.

“I told him what had been going on,” she continued. “What I… told you.”

It felt somehow viscerally, urgently important that Draco knew everything. The outcome of her conversation with Ron was a protective suit of armour against her attraction to him, and Hermione didn’t know any other way to hide her vulnerability than to tell Draco about it. He needed to know that if he had Pansy, well, she had Ron. It was simple.

Draco cleared his throat. “Was he upset?” he asked flatly.

“Um,” she said, waveringly. “Actually, no.”

Draco made a low noise in his throat, crouching down and prodding harshly at the stonework. “Very forgiving sort, isn’t he?”

Hermione didn’t know whether that was a baited comment or not, so she let it lie. She shot another flare up into the roof. “In fact I… When I tried to apologise for hiding what I was feeling… it was like he didn’t believe that I’d done anything wrong. He was just… ready to forgive me. No matter what,” she continued.

“Well, that’s rather fine and dandy for you both, isn’t it?” Draco muttered darkly.

Now that was _definitely_ targeted. She dropped her wand arm to her side and turned to face him.

“Alright, _what_ is your problem?” she demanded. “I thought you’d be happy for me. We’re all back to _normal_. The way _you_ wanted it.” Her words held more acid than she had expected, and it caught at her tongue.

And white-hot sparks flared behind his eyes. “Oh really? Normal, is it? How much did you tell him, I wonder?”

Her heart stuttered. “Draco-”

“No, how much did you tell him?” he insisted, anger seeping through his restraints with every word. “Did you tell him what happened after you left and came running back to Hogwarts? Did you tell him what you nearly told me, that you don’t want him as much you want-”

“Stop it,” she whispered.

“Does he know that I’ve had my hands on your body? That I know how it feels to have your lips-”

“Shut your mouth!” she roared, and sparks flew out of the end of her wand. She dropped it onto the stone as if burnt.

He clenched his jaw. “I just think that someone who truly respects you should be able to hear the truth,” he said heatedly. “You shouldn’t have to mollycoddle him until he mindlessly forgives you!”

“He’s not mindless,” she hissed. “And that doesn’t make any sense!”

“If you can’t see someone as both their good and their bad and still – well then, that’s – it’s not-” He broke off sharply, furiously turning his attention back to the wall.

“Not _what_ , Malfoy? What does that even mean?! Why do you care what I tell _my boyfriend_?!”

“Oh, back to Malfoy now, is it?” he said bitterly.

“Don’t avoid the question!” she snapped, and he finally looked up at her.

Draco’s mask was sharp, angled, deadly, but his eyes looked just the same as they had in the Room of Requirement. Desperate.

There was a charged silence, bolts of lightning shooting across Hermione’s skin with the potency of thunder.

She didn’t understand why he was so angry, why she was so furious, why this was suddenly so _fucking difficult._

She swallowed. “Why are we fighting?” she whispered.

And he stilled, softened, confusion folding into the creases of his eyelids. “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

“I’ve had enough of talking,” she gritted out. “I’m sorry. I’ve done too much talking, too much thinking, and I’ve had more than enough. You’re the one person in this castle that I get to just _be_ with. Can we…” Her voice choked out, and she reached cowedly for her wand. “Can we just… be?”

Draco bit his lip.

The silence ached.

“Okay,” he whispered.

The rest of the evening was cloaked in quiet, but it was a kind one, as they worked through the rest of the room, mending it piece by piece, building back up the walls that had been torn down.

Hermione’s heart felt as pink and granular as the tender valley of a fresh wound. But when they called it a night, separating with nothing more than a brief touch of her hand to his wrist, pulse points jumping like a livewire, she knew it was a clean one.

This, too, would heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first thing I want to say is that I saw somebody recommend this fic on a fanfic group last week and it made my WHOLE YEAR. Thank you so, so much <3 It’s the most incredible thing to think that people are talking about my story! The response to this little lockdown project has been so, so much more than I had ever expected, and I want to thank everyone who’s commented or given kudos or recommended to friends; you make my little writer’s heart so full <3  
> Next update coming this weekend because I hit some kind of speed boost button on my writing, apparently?


	15. 'The Last Lesbian at Hogwarts'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's weekend everyone!  
> I don't know if you can tell, but I had the absolute time of my life writing Pansy Parkinson in this chapter...

Time passed.

It was a sign of just how much time Hermione had spent thinking about other things over Christmas, because she’d somehow gotten to the middle of January without realising that exams were only a few months away. Such an oversight merited considerable remedial worrying, and so Hermione threw herself back into her studies, staying in the library so late that Madam Pince kept finding her curled up between the stacks long after closing time.

Hermione had a life plan, she had a career she needed to A: decide on, and B: prepare for, and so every moment of studying was tinged with an aggressive sort of focus that seemed to rather put off any potential library companions. She lost count of the times she had leafed through the career pamphlets at the front desk, but was still no closer to deciding what on Earth she was going to do when the time came to leave the only place she’d known for the last seven years.

As well as being a sensible use of her time in the run up to her most important exams yet, the bonus of such extended library sessions was that they kept her mind from dwelling on the person it kept inevitably turning back to, time and time again.

It had become impossible to deny that she had some sort of silly infatuation with Draco. Her eyes followed him in every room he entered as if magnetised, her attention wandered when he was near, and she found herself looking for him in the library, in the great hall, and in class, where he seemed to stand out impossibly brightly.

She found that she was paying an inordinate amount of attention to him and Pansy, to the time they spent in one another’s company, as thick as thieves. She had memorised the way he looked at Pansy, every time his eyebrows lifted with amusement the way that had once been reserved for her. Friends don’t get jealous of one another’s relationships, she had to keep reminding herself. It was daft.

And yet a strange, selfish part of her enjoyed their Fixer-Upper Club meetings all the more for the fact that it meant a few hours alone with him. That said, they had regained some of their easy companionship, but her pulse and her thoughts jumped like electromagnetic waves when he so much as addressed her by name. God forbid he brushed past her in any way: her heart would stop in her throat and it would take an embarrassingly long time for her thoughts to reorder themselves. And yet every time he opened his mouth, every time he smiled at her, her heart folded out like reverting origami, and she was lost.

Seeing him with Pansy the next day would poke at an already sore spot in her chest in a way that she still didn’t quite fully understand.

It was uncomfortable, and damning to think about, and so Hermione preferred to spend her time nose-deep in textbooks.

Textbooks made sense. And they didn’t hurt.

Outside of Hermione’s mental world which currently consisted of little else than N.E.W.T.s, Ron, and Draco, life at Hogwarts went on pretty much as normal.

Hermione spent an incredibly dull Quidditch game up in the stands, watching the balls move pointlessly around the pitch and trying not to look down at the stands where she knew Draco would be sat. Probably with Pansy.

For incredibly selfish reasons, Hermione was mildly glad that Parvati was tutoring her. There was something rather vilifying about hearing Parvati storm back to the dormitory in a huff at her and Pansy’s latest argument. It was easier to hear about their petty disagreements and be sympathetic to Parvati than to stew on the fact that Pansy’s arrival back at Hogwarts had drastically cut down the time Hermione got to spend with the one person that really seemed to understand her.

* * *

“Granger.”

Hermione started abruptly. She had been sat in the library, wading through a heavy essay for Charms, and she hadn’t exactly planned on being disturbed.

She looked around grumpily. The library was busy that day, heads down at desks, quills wiggling frantically. She had all but given up searching when the voice rang out again.

“Over here, numpty.”

She turned towards the sound, and her face must have betrayed something unspoken, because Pansy Parkinson, seated at the next table, paused from staring exasperatedly at her in order to quirk a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

“No need to look _quite_ so pleased to see me,” she smirked. “Come over here.”

Her hair fell in a sleek bob around her delicate face. Her green eyes regarded Hermione with a look of the utmost disdain.

“What do you want, Parkinson?” Hermione asked hesitantly, and Pansy snorted.

“ _Parkinson_? Come off it.” And with that, she gathered up her things, strode over to Hermione’s table, and dumped them down unceremoniously. “Move your bag,” she clipped, and Hermione was too shell-shocked to do anything but comply.

“Are you… lost?” Hermione asked.

Pansy didn’t deign to answer. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while.”

Well, that didn’t exactly fill her with excitement. “You have?”

“Do you know, you never welcomed me back to the castle,” Pansy said, examining her fingernails. “I think that’s rather rude.”

Hermione was at a loss of what to say. “Welcome back?” she tried, and Pansy grinned as if she’d said something both hilarious and ridiculous.

“How gracious of you. Aren’t you curious about why I wasn’t here last term?” she asked. She pulled her wand out of her bag and transfigured Hermione’s eraser into a nail file, which she set about using with metred precision.

Hermione cleared her throat. “Um, I hadn’t thought about it, really,” she admitted.

“Hm,” was Pansy’s reply. She set the nail file down and crossed her arms. “Do you know what people call me behind my back, Granger?”

A spring of guilt flourished in Hermione’s belly. “No,” she mumbled, reaching out to screw the lid back on her inkpot to avoid looking at the girl in front of her.

“Bitch is a common one,” Pansy said, with the air of someone remarking mildly on the weather. “Stuck-up, prissy, pureblood bitch. Shallow, desperate Slytherin slag. Death eater whore.”

Hermione flinched.

“It’s funny, isn’t it,” Pansy continued, “how when people want to insult a woman, they immediately go for things of a sexual nature?”

“Except for mudblood,” Hermione muttered.

Pansy stilled. “You make an excellent point,” she said quietly. “And you’ll be pleased to hear that I know that term is _far_ worse than any of the things I’ve been called in my time.”

“But I digress,” she continued, shirking away the vulnerability in her voice. She flicked something away from her lap, shrugged her outer robes off her shoulders, and laced her fingers on the table in front of her. “ _That’s_ why I didn’t want to come back to Hogwarts. Offering to dob the Chosen One in may not have been my best decision in hindsight,” she smirked. “But I couldn’t stand hearing it thrown back in my face, not here. I’m a big girl, you know, I _can_ take it. But I didn’t want petty corridor gossip to be my last memory of this place, so it was safer not to come back at all.”

Hermione felt suddenly rather desperately as if she understood Pansy all too well.

“So why _did_ you come back?” she asked hesitantly.

Pansy tucked a strand of pin-straight black hair behind one ear. “Because of Draco,” she answered. “And therefore, indirectly, because of you.”

Hermione’s elbow slipped off the table and Pansy pretended not to notice.

“Now, don’t ever ask me to say this again,” she continued. “…But I owe you a thanks for sticking up for Draco this year.”

“Oh,” said Hermione weakly. “That’s – it’s-”

“Save it, Granger,” Pansy sighed, slumping back in her seat. “I was a coward,” she continued, in a softer voice. “I hid at home while the rest of you came back. And it’s only because of you, because of the way you’ve had Draco’s back… He assured me that things would be okay.”

Hermione blinked.

“So I came back,” Pansy finished, rather unnecessarily.

Brown eyes stared into green.

On the table behind them, someone snapped a book shut, startling them both.

“Right, now that horrible moment is done with,” said Pansy, recovering quickly. “I’ve got a hypothetical question for you.”

“O-okay,” Hermione stumbled.

“Say I like someone,” Pansy said, and Hermione nearly choked at the rapid change of tone. “Hypothetically. Someone that doesn’t seem to be getting the message that I’m interested. How should I go about making a move?”

Hermione stared at her.

Well, this was fantastic. It was painfully obvious who she was talking about. Pansy Parkinson was asking _her_ how to ask out the boy that Hermione had spent one minute kissing, and every minute since then, thinking about it. Her heart cemented in her stomach.

“You’re asking _me_?” she croaked.

Pansy stared unblinkingly at her. “Yes. And if you tell anyone I came to you for relationship advice, I’ll feed your mangy cat to my owl.”

Hermione snorted before she could help it. “I’d like to see you _try_.”

“Sephieia may be small, but she’s determined-”

“Crookshanks weighs ten times what she does-”

“My statement still stands.”

Hermione snorted into her parchment before remembering herself and sobering again. “I, er…” She looked at Pansy’s beautiful straight hair, her skin like porcelain, her unusually green eyes, her delicate nose. “I don’t think you need my help,” she admitted. “Just, er… be yourself?”

“You’ve got a funny sense of humour, Granger. _Myself_ is the aforementioned Death Eater whore, remember?”

Hermione fiddled with the plume of her quill. “We’ve all changed in the last year,” she said quietly.

“Mm.” Pansy eyed her. “Any other indispensable titbits for me? Or has your allotted trollshit quota been filled for the day?”

“I’m trying to help-!”

“I know,” sneered Pansy. “That’s what makes all the _more_ frustrating.”

Hermione glared down at her parchment, hands clenching and teeth gritted. “There’s a whole _castle_ of girls that would be better with this stuff, Pansy, why are you asking me?”

There was a pause, and then Pansy leaned closer, her face fragile and open for a moment.

“Draco told me that you’re really close. Like, best friends, or something,” she murmured, not meeting her eyes. “I figured you’d know.”

_Close._

A marble lodged itself in Hermione’s throat, but her grip on her quill relaxed.

She exhaled slowly. “Just go for it,” she said eventually. “Be brave. Don’t hang around being uncertain – too many people do that. Just go and be happy.”

Pansy blinked. “You and he are far too similar, you know,” she said, and Hermione forced herself not to dwell on the uncomfortable ache in her stomach.

Pansy allowed herself a sincere nod, and then the mask was back on and her expression fell once more into the one Hermione had come to expect from her. The Slytherin scooted backwards, chair scraping into the carpet.

Hermione watched her stand up. “You’re welcome?”

Pansy shot her a disgusted look. “Ugh. We never had this conversation,” she muttered, and Hermione tried not to grin as she left the library without a backward glance.

Hermione’s eyes fell on all the stationary and the robes she’d left behind.

She should leave it there.

She should.

But when she called it quits in the library for the day, she found herself skirting down to the dungeons to deposit Pansy’s things outside the Slytherin Common Room.

Pansy was an enigma. But at least if Draco was taken, Hermione could force herself to stop thinking about him.

Hermione spent a while debating whether or not to reclaim her eraser, but eventually decided against it.

And so she tucked the transfigured nail file into the pocket of Pansy’s robes with a smile that was almost fond, knocked sharply on the common room door, and turned on her heel to make her way back to her own dormitory.

* * *

Hermione tried to throw herself into her relationship with Ron with the same vivacity she had applied to her library stints, but it was suddenly a hell of a lot harder than she had anticipated.

He treated her with such care, such patience, but there was a hesitance in everything he did that practically threw up a neon sign reminding Hermione of what had gone so wrong.

She attempted to carve out time to spend with him, but it was marred with discomfort, both of them skating around certain topics. Once, he attempted to ask her about what she had done over the Christmas holidays, but the events of New Year’s Eve caught Hermione’s tongue like a vice, and she clammed up entirely until she was able to change the subject.

There was honesty, and then there was cruelty.

And telling Ron about a stupid, spur-of-the-moment mistake that had been cut off almost as soon as it started felt like it would fall too far into the latter camp.

And so it remained unsaid as the weeks went by.

By contrast, the time she spent with Draco was easy and unburdened.

Several times a week, they would meet as they always did, down in the South corridor under the cover of darkness. The number of rooms they had cleared was almost astounding, and it was with a great deal of pride that they worked, as if it was some holy venture they were pursuing.

Hermione didn’t mention Ron, and Draco didn’t mention Pansy, and so they worked side by side, secret companions united in their unlikely connection of seeing the world in a similar way. Occasionally they were caught out, for example the time Hermione caught him staring at her neck, and it wasn’t until she got back to the dormitory that she realised there was a smear of mud there from Herbology that looked rather like a lovebite. But otherwise they were back to the easy friendship that had flourished so organically that year.

She was content to do nothing more overt than admire him out of the corner of her eyes whenever he cast a particularly impressive spell, or pushed his sleeves up to his forearms, or smoothed his hair back. He may have caught her looking once or twice but had the good nature not to comment.

He was taken, she reminded herself. And if he wasn’t, he would be soon.

And so time passed.

* * *

“Room for one more?” asked Draco.

Hermione looked up from her Potions textbook to see him leaning over the library chair opposite her. She’d only seen him the night before, where they’d stayed up until one o’clock in order to fix a dilapidated staircase in the South wing, but her lips still fell into a smile, already glad to see him again.

“Sit down,” she grinned. “What are you up to?”

He pulled his satchel to one side and fished out another copy of the same Potions textbook she was using. “Snap,” he said.

She smiled shyly and turned back down to her own parchment while Draco sat down and busied himself with setting up his things. She had missed their library sessions that term, now that he spent all his time with Pansy. Hermione did prefer having a companion to work with, after all, and Harry and Ron weren’t always particularly conducive to focused study.

Although, realising the way she kept looking up at Draco, noting the way he chewed at the side of his tongue when he was bored, the way he sighed when he reached out to ink his quill, maybe he wasn’t the best for it either.

They worked in companionable silence for a while, and when Hermione was able to keep her mind of the curves of his fingers and the ghost of a dimple in one of his cheeks, she was surprisingly productive. That was, until she heard a set of footsteps pause next to them, and the chair between her and Draco was pulled out.

She blinked up at the newcomer.

“Ron?” she said, disbelievingly.

Ron smiled at her and sat down as if Draco wasn’t glaring at him over the top of his textbook. “Hey, Herm. I hope you don’t mind me joining you?”

He refused to look at Draco while he pulled parchment and quills out of his bag, but Draco ignored this courtesy and kept staring at him as if he’d just announced he was giving up wizardry for a life of goat-herding.

Hermione felt about the same.

She, Ron, and Draco were all sat at the same table in the library.

Hell might just have frozen over.

She leaned over to whisper in Ron's ear. “What are you _doing_?”

He shrugged. “I wanted to study with you,” he whispered back. “I feel like I’ve not seen you properly all week. I had to check the Marauder’s Map to find you though, I hope that’s okay.”

Hermione swallowed. “Fair enough,” she said carefully. “As long as you don’t mind Draco working here too.”

“That’s fine,” he said stiffly. “I’d rather sit with you and ferret-face-”

Draco cleared his throat.

“-than on my own.”

She nodded. “Sure. I’m, er, going to be very boring, though. I’ve got a long essay to finish.”

“No worries, don’t let me stop you,” Ron said. He offered a tiny glare at Draco, who sheepishly went back to his own work. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all,” Hermione said quickly. She tapped her quill against her parchment a few times, trying to return to her work. This would be so much easier if she hadn’t stayed up so late the night before. _Golpalott’s Third Law firmly states that the antidote to a blended poison may not be created by mixing the antidotes to each of its components, which exists in direct opposition to Magnelli’s theorem of Cumulative Antibalance…_

“Draco,” she said.

Both boys looked up.

“Have you come across any exceptions to Magnelli’s theorem in your Alchemy classes?” she asked, trying not to blush at the two sets of eyes focused on her. Ron frowned into his lap.

“Oh,” said Draco tentatively. “Um, yes, actually.” He reached into his bag for a textbook, flipped through it for a moment, and then presented her with a page, leaning across the table towards her. “Apparently the Ancient Chinese Alchemist Zhang Kuo did some work on attempting to find a reversal agent for Polyjuice. It was a slightly different Polyjuice to what we know today, but the base ingredients and the functionality were pretty similar. Did you know they were able to use it to transform humans into animals?”

Hermione let out a breath of surprise. “But I thought Ersaal Mäkinen proposed that that was fundamentally impossible due to the length of stewing time required to reach efficacy?!”

“Apparently, this recipe found a way around that,” Draco replied, smiling wryly. He tapped a particular paragraph. “But, er, with regards to reversing its effects, they found that there was no possible way to create a potion that could do that without finding some way to counteract the last ingredient-”

“The piece of the donor!”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “And because it’s a human – or animal – ingredient, it can only be reversed by something tailored specifically to the individual involved. The yin to their yang, as it were. And finding the perfect antibalance to the essence of one individual is really rare, which means that for some potions you can neither find one successful antidote to the entire thing, or a sum of combined ones.”

“Which successfully undermines both Golpalott and Magnelli!” Hermione cried. “Thank you!”

She beamed at him, noticing too late that Ron was watching them both with a look of dumbfounded incomprehension. His cheeks had reddened, the tell-tale sign of embarrassment he was trying not to show.

He quickly shut his mouth when he noticed her gaze, turning his attention back down to his own work. “I see why you get along,” he mumbled discontentedly into his parchment.

She let out a breathy laugh that choked out rather rapidly, and when she turned away, she noticed that Draco had a spark of something almost victorious in his eyes. She picked up her quill once more.

They worked in silence for a bit, but Hermione couldn’t help but notice that Ron seemed to be having difficulty focusing outright on his work. He fidgeted with his quill, tapped it against his nose until a spot of ink bloomed across his cheek, glanced at her through his eyelashes, stretched and fidgeted and sighed. It prickled at her skin and set her teeth on edge, like an irritation she couldn’t scratch. And it didn’t help that every time she looked up, there was Draco, looking as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Her gaze snapped to him a few minutes later when he pushed his sleeves up to his elbows.

It was a small act, but Ron paled visibly at the sight of the Dark Mark on Draco’s forearm, staring grimly up at the ceiling. He opened his mouth but Draco merely lifted his eyebrows in a silent challenge, and Ron wisely shut it again, his jaw jutting in discontent.

The look on Draco’s face grew ever more triumphant, and unease roiled in Hermione’s stomach as she carefully scratched another line of her essay.

The library clock ticked on.

Hermione didn’t realise she was yawning until Ron grinned at her. “Did you not sleep well last night?” he teased.

Draco let out an odd noise that turned into a cough, and Hermione willed herself not to blush at the memory of the evening she had spent by Draco’s side in the South Wing the night before.

“I couldn’t seem to fall asleep,” she lied softly, and while Ron nodded and went back to his work, Draco refused to look away. And she had the uncomfortable feeling that he was challenging her, like they were back in the argument they’d had earlier that month.

_Someone who truly respects you should be able to hear the truth._

Should Ron hear that Hermione willingly spent her evenings with his worst enemy?

“Well, isn’t this cosy?” someone drawled suddenly.

Three pairs of eyes looked up to find Pansy Parkinson grinning at them, her weight centred on one hip, her arms folded indulgently.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. As if this afternoon couldn’t get any weirder.

“Draco,” Pansy said. “Weasel. And Little Miss Perfect.”

“Back off, Pansy,” Ron growled.

“Easy, easy,” she smirked. “Hermione and I are friends now. I’m not here to bully you.”

Both Ron and Draco turned disbelieving looks on Hermione, who rolled her eyes.

“We’re not friends,” she said, but she knew there was an indomitable smile forming regardless at the corner of her mouth. Pansy smirked prettily at her.

“We will be,” she announced. “Move your great feet out the way Weasley, they’re under my chair.”

“ _Your_ chair?”

“Yes,” said Pansy. She yanked the chair opposite Ron out from underneath the table and dropped lightly into it.

Not entirely sure how she’d ended up from sitting on her own to sharing a table with three other people, Hermione huffed and violently re-inked her quill. _Golpalott’s fourth law_ …

“This is nice,” said Pansy with glee.

No one answered. The tension was almost palpable, and yet Pansy was grinning as if sharing a table with her maybe-boyfriend and two of the people she’d bullied for seven years was her very favourite activity. “You, me…” she said in a sing-song voice. “The school nerd… her pet gnome…”

Ron glared daggers at her and Hermione had to try very hard not to laugh.

Then Draco leant over and whispered something in Pansy’s ear, and she cackled.

Heat prickled in Hermione’s chest at the sight of Draco’s lips so close to Pansy’s perfect skin, and she had to force herself to look back at her work.

“Did you take Potions this year?” Pansy asked Ron, after a moment. Draco’s hand stilled on his parchment.

Ron huffed and ignored her in favour of underlining his essay title a second time.

“So rude,” said Pansy. “You ask a simple question-”

“No,” Ron bit out.

“Ah.” Pansy considered this for a moment. “It’s fortunate that Hermione and Draco have each other as Potions study partners, then,” she said innocently.

Draco shot her a warning glance.

“Mm,” said Ron tersely, not looking up from his work.

“It’s no surprise they’ve gotten so _close_ ,” Pansy continued.

Ron’s hand tensed around his quill.

_Close._

There was that word again.

Did Pansy know? What exactly had Draco told her? Did she have something against Ron? Was she trying to rile him up?

Hermione didn’t understand, and it wasn’t a feeling she enjoyed.

“Stop shit-stirring, Pans,” said Draco sharply.

“I’m not,” said Pansy helpfully. “I’m just poking the bear.”

“Well, the bear doesn’t _want_ to be poked,” Ron gritted out.

“And the bear _clearly_ doesn’t want to sit with Draco either, so why would he?” Pansy taunted.

“I’m here for Hermione,” Ron answered, throwing his quill down, all pretence of studying abandoned. “ _That’s it_. As far as I’m concerned, you two are just a couple of bloody inconveniences.”

“Ooh,” said Pansy, a grin still plastered on her face. “Big word.”

“Cut it out,” Draco hissed.

“What is your problem?” Ron demanded. “I didn’t come here for this.”

“I’m just curious about why you need to babysit your girlfriend,” said Pansy sweetly. “Something you’re worried about, by any chance?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at her.

“You’re deluded,” Ron grunted, but his ears were turning pink.

Pansy put her head on her fist, the picture of innocence. “Oh really? Tell me, Weaselbee, do you _always_ treat her like she can’t be trusted around other men? Or is it something you reserve especially for Draco-?”

Ron shoved his chair back and jumped to his feet. “Fuck _off_ , Parkinson!” he snapped.

“Ron, please-” Hermione started.

“Not. Now,” Ron hissed. And snatching up his bag, he stormed away.

“Ooh,” said Pansy, giggling.

Draco stared at her, dumbfounded. “For fuck’s sake, Pans-”

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Hermione demanded, practically lunging across the table at her. “You had _no_ right.”

“Oh, please,” said Pansy. “You could practically read his mind from the other side of the room. He was looming over you like your _keeper_ or something! It’s _pathetic_.”

Hermione faltered. “I don’t know what you mean-”

“Relationships should have trust,” Pansy said firmly, and Hermione couldn’t help but marvel at the bizarre turn of events that had led to Pansy Parkinson giving her relationship advice. “If your boyfriend is trailing you around the castle twenty-four-seven because he’s worried you’ll run off with the first bloke you see, that’s not exactly stable ground. You deserve better than that.”

Hermione closed her mouth. Across the table, Draco did the same.

“Were you… defending me?”

“Duh,” said Pansy, as if it was obvious. “I told you we’d be friends.”

“Well, you’ve got a funny way of going about it,” Hermione mumbled.

“Look,” Pansy sighed. “Weasley was so paranoid about you sitting with Draco that he _literally_ came and sat between you. All _I_ did was expose his ridiculous behaviour. He did all the rest himself.”

“That’s wonderful, Pansy,” said Hermione dryly. “But most people tend to react badly if you insinuate that something they’re insecure about might be real.”

Pansy shrugged, fished in her bag, and popped an every-flavour bean into her mouth. “That’s for you to sort out, not me.” She chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “You know, I hoped you had better taste in men, Granger.”

Hermione blinked at her.

And Draco put his head in his hands. “I need a drink,” he groaned.

* * *

Hermione was hesitant when she slid between Ron and Luna at the dinner table that night. She had no idea what place Ron was in – whether he wanted space, wanted to talk about it, or simply wanted to forget it and move on.

Pansy had managed to hit exactly at his biggest insecurity, the one that Hermione knew he had, but hated to acknowledge. She knew that Ron would always be frightened that she might find someone smarter, more handsome, more well-matched. And even though Draco was Draco, he was also attractive, smart, and, well, rich. Which was bound to be something Ron was aware of.

It probably didn’t help that every time he had seen Hermione and Draco together recently, they’d been laughing at a joke he didn’t get, or talking about a subject he didn’t understand. No wonder he was now plagued with fears about Draco in the same way he had agonised about leaving Harry and Hermione alone together last year.

Ron’s insecurities were part of him, and Hermione had always accepted them, tried to be gentle with them.

And then along came Pansy Parkinson, in some misguided attempt to expose Ron’s emotional shortcomings, and now here they were, with Hermione stealing tentative glances over the dinner table at a boyfriend who was refusing to make eye contact.

Thankfully Parvati, on the other side of the table, was doing enough talking for the three of them.

“And then Professor Trelawney told Cho that she had seen dark things in her future, and had she seen the tell-tale sign of a crow – and get this – apparently Cho walked past a dead crow this morning down by the lake.”

Hermione blinked. “If a crow signifies dark things, wouldn’t a dead one… be a good thing?”

Parvati chewed a mouthful of Yorkshire pudding, shaking her head. “You’d think so, right? But no, apparently crows are just generally, all-round bad news.”

Hermione speared a forkful of roast potato. “Huh. And did Trelawney have any predictions for you?”

Parvati blinked, redness falling over her features. “Oh, er…” she mumbled, looking down at her plate. “She said I could expect something of a, er, what was the word? Um, _carnal nature_ ,” she said.

“She _what_?” Hermione gasped, grinning.

“I know, I know,” cringed Parvati.

“Parvati!”

“Shush!” she cried, flapping her hands at her. “I don’t know what she thinks she’s talking about anyway, the last lesbian at Hogwarts was Alicia Spinnet, and she graduated three years ago! So I don’t know exactly where _I’m_ supposed to be getting any action.”

Hermione spluttered out a laugh.

Luna smiled into her bowl of beef stew. “Perhaps she means one of the Professors?”

“Luna!” Parvati cried. “The only young and attractive teacher here is Firenze, and he’s probably still like thirty years older than me!”

“And half horse,” added Ron, resurfacing from his sulk.

“And half horse,” Parvati admitted with a grin.

Hermione stared at them both. “And _male_? Wasn’t _that_ the whole problem to begin with?”

And the table erupted into laughter.

When she’d finished eating, Hermione pushed her plate back with a contented sigh. The lack of sleep the night before – too busy trying to finish the staircase that she and Draco had been working on all week – was catching up with her, and she couldn’t help but yawn loudly into her palm.

Parvati quirked an eyebrow at her. “Speaking of things of a carnal nature…” she teased. “ _Someone_ was out late again last night.”

The air froze.

Ron stiffened by her side and Hermione felt her heart skip.

 _No_ …

“You know, Ron,” Parvati grinned, “you really ought to stop encouraging this behaviour. Hermione’s so tired she _nearly_ misquoted a paragraph of Advanced Conjuring in Transfiguration this morning.”

Ron blinked at Hermione. “Last night?”

“Oh, we didn’t-”

“Ha!” cried Parvati, clearly not noticing Hermione’s wide-eyed panic, or Ron’s dumbfounded expression. “Did you really think we wouldn’t notice you sneaking out? It’s only been going on since October.”

“But… we haven’t been sneaking out?” said Ron, any trace of amusement fully gone from his face.

Parvati snorted. “What, you don’t call leaving the dorm three nights a week in the dead of night ‘sneaking out’? Come on Hermione, I literally saw you last night, don’t tell me you don’t remember?”

There was a cold silence.

Parvati’s smile faded and her voice finally dropped in volume. “What, you mean you haven’t been-?”

Hermione offered a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of the head, and the colour drained from Parvati’s face.

“But in that case, who-”

And at that very moment Hermione saw the realisation hit her, saw Parvati’s eyes go as wide as Galleons, gaze flitting frantically between Hermione and Ron… and then, finally, unavoidably, damningly, to the Slytherin table. To Draco.

Cold sweat drenched Hermione in head to toe.

Ron’s eyes hardened. “Don’t tell me.”

“We’ve just been fixing the castle up,” said Hermione quickly. “Just like what you and I did last term, it’s nothing big, you know Draco and I-”

“I said, _don’t tell me_! I don’t want to hear that Pansy _fucking_ Parkinson knew something I didn’t!” Ron yelled. The table went silent, and even Ron looked shocked at his own outburst. “I’m going to… I’m going to go,” he said shakily.

“Ronald-”

“Just _leave it_ , Hermione,” he snapped. “We can… we can talk about it later. If you want.”

And then Hermione could do nothing but watch as he set his jaw, got to his feet, and left.

Parvati turned to her with a horrified look on her face. “Fuck, Hermione, I’m so sorry-!”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly. _It really wasn’t._

“I - I really thought the two of you were meeting up, I had no idea it was-”

“It wasn’t _anyone_ ,” Hermione bit out. “Just leave it, you’ve done enough.”

And the hurt on Parvati’s face sliced at her heart.

Maybe it would be easier if she knew Ron had nothing to be worried about, nothing to be jealous about. But she thought of her nights with Draco, the way he’d stared at her earlier in the library, and the way her skin prickled like thorns whenever Ron so much as touched her…

And she knew she couldn’t argue that Draco meant nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the support on this story! Every single comment makes me feel like I've just won the lottery!  
> Next update next weekend and... I had SO much fun with it... ;)  
> See you then!


	16. 'Of All the Hare-Brained Schemes'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another early update! This story has turned from 19 to 20 to now 21 total chapters, so I realised I needed extra time to get it all posted before the deadline next month! On that note, this story should be finished a month today... Crazy, right?  
> For anyone curious, the final predicted word count is about 120,000 :)  
> I am absolutely overwhelmed and overjoyed at the response to the last chapter, I'm so glad everyone is liking Pansy as much as I do! And so many of you smart sneaky snakes are three steps ahead of Hermione already ;) Let's hope she catches up soon, hey?  
> TW for violence. And an apology for excessive use of the word 'fuck'.  
> I lied last time: THIS IS MY FAVOURITE CHAPTER!  
> Enjoy! <3

Hermione couldn’t face the Gryffindor dorms. So instead, she fled to the owlery and wrote Draco a note.

‘ _Are you free tonight? There’s a classroom that needs our attention.’_

It was a considerable understatement of all the reasons she wanted to see him. But it was all she could commit to parchment.

‘ _An excellent plan_ ,’ was the reply, and Hermione almost wept with relief.

She meandered her way down to the South Corridor, before realising that she could meet Draco on the way there. A quick detour down to the dungeons, along the corridor towards the Slytherin Common Room, and then suddenly, there he was.

With Pansy.

They were very close.

Shit, shit, shit. Hermione flung herself into an alcove before they could notice her. Why had she come this way?!

“It’s just… we have something special,” Pansy was saying. “We’re friends. I’m scared to… to risk losing that.”

 _Oh, crap_. Of all the conversations Hermione had to overhear, why this? She sagged into the alcove but was unable to keep herself from peering around the corner.

“Don’t you think it would be worth it?” Draco asked. His brows were lowered in concern, one hand on Pansy’s shoulder. Hermione’s throat seized.

“Of course it would,” Pansy breathed, shrugging him off. “But I’ve got precious few friends here as it is. They all _matter_.”

“I know,” Draco insisted. “Don’t you think I feel the same way?”

“Ha!” Pansy snapped humourlessly, not meeting his gaze.

“You know where I stand,” said Draco softly. “This is about _you_. It’s in your hands now.”

There was a silence.

“I hate how much more emotionally mature you’ve become since you started hanging out with Granger,” Pansy grumbled, but there was no malice there, not really.

Hermione felt like little cracks were splitting through in her chest.

“Please, Pansy,” he said, and his voice was soft, so soft that Hermione wished she could unhear it. “Give it a chance.”

The silence was impossibly heavy, and she clung to the wall to stay upright against it.

“Okay,” Pansy breathed.

Draco stared at her.

And Pansy raked a hand through her perfect hair. “But if our friendship goes up in flames, I’m holding you accountable.”

“Pansy, that’s… you’re-”

Hermione saw the moment Pansy rushed at him, arms outstretched, and she tore her eyes away, unable to watch.

Draco was her friend. One of her closest friends. She should be _happy_ for him.

So why then, was there a serpentine coil of acid in her throat? Why, then, was it so hard to breathe? _Why_ was her heart rattling in her chest like a caged boggart? And not just any boggart, a boggart that Hermione couldn’t release, didn’t dare to release, because if she did, if she looked too closely, it might just end up looking like-

Realisation slammed into her like a bolt of lightning and she stumbled as if it had been a physical blow.

 _Fuck_.

Her ears rang, her palms were drenched in sweat. And with the last of her mind’s defences against the truth well and truly crumbled, she turned and left.

* * *

Or at least, she tried to. But her feet made too loud a noise on the stone, and Pansy called out to her.

“Over here, Granger.”

Her voice was gentle, almost amused.

Hermione froze, dragging a hand across her eyes before turning to face them both. Her hands were shaking. “Oh,” she said, her voice cracking minutely. “Hello.”

Draco was pink in the cheeks, half his collar unfolded.

Pansy looked as clean and put together as always. Not a smear of lipstick out of place. They looked for all the world as innocent as two friends could be.

If only Hermione hadn’t heard their conversation.

“Are you still free?” she mumbled, and Draco stepped further away from Pansy, tucking his collar down again.

“Of course,” he said immediately. “Sorry, Pans, I’ll see you later?”

She winked at him. “Have a nice evening,” she said. “Think about what I said.”

Hermione didn’t understand what she meant, but Draco clearly did, and he swallowed nervously as Pansy swept away into the Common Room.

And then Hermione was left alone, standing brokenly in front of a boy with the rushing realisation that after everything, damn it all, she _wanted him_.

It wasn’t just physical, not anymore. It wasn’t just chemicals.

She wanted him in every way it was possible to want someone, and the knowledge of it sent her pulse roaring in her ears.

It wasn’t just the locks of his silver hair, the strong lines of his cheekbones, the wry twist of his lips, the smooth column of his neck, the broad of his shoulders, the touch of his hands. It was his heart, his essence, his soul, his bright laughter in an empty room, the warmth of his eyes. She wanted his Dark Mark, she wanted his scars, she wanted his swear words and his anger and his mistakes. She wanted to laugh and talk and cry, she wanted to hold and be held by him. She wanted to take care of him, and she wanted to depend on him, to know that he’d always be there with a grin and those teasing comments she’d grown to love. She wanted to share her successes and her failures with him, and she wanted a whole fucking _galaxy_ of other things that she hadn’t ever wanted with Ron.

The distance between them physically _ached_.

“Are you alright?” he asked, with a quirk of his brow that nearly stopped the very breath in Hermione’s lungs.

“Yes,” she choked. But she wasn’t, not really. Because everything she had planned, everything she thought she wanted… was wrong.

She needed to talk to Ron.

She couldn’t go on like this.

_She wanted him._

“Shall we go?” she asked quickly, and he nodded as he fell into step beside her.

This changed _everything_.

And Hermione had a tendency to panic in these kinds of situations.

She focused very hard on putting one foot in front of the other, perfectly mapping out the borders of each worn-down stone.

“I heard from my mother today,” Draco said quietly.

Hermione didn’t want to talk about Narcissa Malfoy.

But she could tell from the poise of his chest and the grit of his teeth that he needed this. And so she listened as best as she could, even though she couldn’t quite look at him, even though her chest still rose and fell with the anxiety of a million unspoken desires. “Oh,” she said hesitantly. “Is that, er, good or bad?”

“A bit of both,” he answered, as they turned a corner and climbed a set of stairs. “She wanted to talk to me about what I should do post-Hogwarts.”

Hermione nearly missed a step. “I- interesting,” she choked. “What does she want you to do?”

“What my father did.”

Hermione gaped at him and Draco’s eyes widened. “No, no, not like that,” he said hurriedly. “I mean the family, er, accounts and that. Not er…”

“Voldemort?” Hermione supplied, and they shared a sudden, unexpected grin. It soothed her frightened pulse, comforted her inner rabbit in the headlights.

“Exactly,” Draco said, amused. “Not Voldemort. My father always kept a really tight hold on the finances; investing here, spending there, loaning and reimbursing and collecting interest and… you know what I mean. It’s entirely unnecessary.”

Hermione drummed a rhythm on her palm with each finger. “It is?”

“Even without all the tampering, I think the appropriate phrase is still ‘filthy rich’,” Draco grimaced. “I don’t think I could ever manage to spend it all.”

Hermione blinked, oddly unnerved by the idea. “So what does that mean?” she asked carefully.

“I’m going to get a job,” he said.

This time, Hermione really did miss a step, and she stumbled into the wall. Draco caught her arm and steadied her while she flushed, her skin tingling in the most joyous and damning way possible.

“Thanks,” she muttered. They reached the entrance to the South Wing in silence. They gently floated one another across the chasm, and it couldn’t be more different to the first time they’d done this together.

“I don’t want to be like all the other men in my family,” Draco continued quietly when they landed, and Hermione turned to him. “I told my mother that I want to contribute to society, to do something _good_. And, well, she didn’t know what to think.”

They set off down the corridor, heading for the final classroom. It was by no means the last room that needing fixing, but it was the last one on _their_ corridor. And it felt so important for a moment that Hermione couldn’t bring herself to step across the threshold.

“Maybe she just doesn’t want to see you struggle anymore,” she suggested. “Maybe she wants for you to have an easy life.”

And Draco nodded. “That’s definitely part of it.” It looked like there was a hundred other things he wanted to say.

He sent a flare spinning into the classroom and Hermione flinched as a green light sparked and a heap of rubble came crashing down from the ceiling. “She wanted me to talk to my father about it.”

“But there’s no way-”

“I know,” he said, pocketing his wand. “He won’t want me to get a job. It would bring down the Malfoy name. As if doing something other than sitting in a manor counting Galleons is positively _shameful_.” He took a breath. “But they don’t get to have any say in my life anymore. Not after last year.”

Hermione put a careful hand on his arm but he didn’t look at her.

“And so now, if telling them what I want to do… the sorts of people I want to be around-”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“-if that brings down my family name, then so be it. It’ll be _worth it_ ,” he asserted.

There was a passion in his voice that brought heat to her cheeks. They stepped just inside the classroom, onto the one patch of floor they’d cleared.

“Which is why there’s something I need to tell you,” he whispered.

And it was like Hermione felt every muscle in her body lock in place, freezing her on the spot in the middle of the last classroom they had left to fix.

Draco’s eyes searched hers as if he was looking for something, a confirmation, a refusal, a dismissal. His face had never looked so open and yet so determined at the same time.

Hermione’s heart began to pound, something unfamiliar bursting into life in her chest.

And he leaned closer.

And right when his mouth opened, Hermione felt a flash of premonition shoot through her as if he was about to say something that they’d both regret. And so she cut him off, reaching out and burying her face in his shoulder, her arms wrapping around him the way she’d wanted to do every single day since their fateful New Year’s Eve.

 _Don’t tell me_ , she thought, with an urgency so violent she couldn’t begin to work out where it came from. _Don’t do it._

He brought one hand to cradle the back of her neck, the other to her waist, and he squeezed, almost firmly enough to hurt. She could feel his lips at her temple.

 _I don’t think you know what it’ll do to me_ , he had said.

She hadn’t understood at the time.

But she was a thousand miles away from that night. And she understood him more clearly than ever.

And then it all shattered with three words.

_“I knew it.”_

* * *

Hermione and Draco sprang apart, warmth draining from her chest as if a plug has been pulled. The speaker’s voice was contorted with emotion, but Hermione would still know it anywhere.

Because there was Ron, standing disbelievingly out in the corridor, the Marauder’s Map clutched in his palm, fists clenched and face twisted.

“This explains everything,” he whispered, and this time, he was talking directly to her. His voice was as cold as ice, and twice as deadly. “ _How could you_?” he breathed. “You’ve been lying to me all this time, stringing me along while you sneak off to be with _Malfoy_ -”

Her mouth dropped open. “What, no! It’s not like that-!”

“It’s not? Do you not hear yourself?!” he cried, and Hermione realised with a jolt that through his anger was a raw, burning _hurt,_ a wound so deep that she couldn’t begin to soothe it. “I thought we were finally being honest with one another!”

“We are!” Hermione cried.

“No, we’re not!” Ron growled. “ _I’ve_ been nothing but honest with you! But you say you’re being honest with me and then I find out you’ve been seeing him all this time!”

Hot, angry tears burned their way down her cheek. “You don’t understand!”

“I think I understand a bit too well, actually,” Ron hissed. “I believed what you told me every time I tried to touch you, and here you are with his _fucking_ hands all over you!”

“Draco and I aren’t _like_ that!”

Ron’s mouth twisted. “You think I don’t hear the rumours? How much is true, I wonder? Have you let him touch you? Let him _fuck_ you-”

The heat of her rage blistered her tongue. “That is _out of line_ -!”

“Like-” Ron’s mouth worked furiously. “Like some common _slut_.”

And before Hermione even had time to register what he had said, Draco leapt forward with a punch that cracked Ron’s nose.

* * *

Ron stumbled back, bright red spurting from under shaking fingers, and Draco’s face shone with a look of such shock that it was as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d done.

“What the fuck?” Ron breathed. There was a beat of silence as they all stared at the red smear on Draco’s fist.

And then Ron launched himself forward, hands fisting in his shirt, and the two boys toppled to the floor in a whirlwind of grappling and shoving and punching.

“Fucking-Death Eater-bastard-”

“Go on, say it again!” Draco grunted. “Arsehole-!”

“Stop it, both of you!” Hermione screamed. “Stop it now!”

Ron’s fist collided with Draco’s jaw, whose eyes blazed with ferocity as he kicked upwards, shoving Ron flat on his back with a _crunch_ that Hermione felt in her bones.

“You had no right!” Ron yelled, driving a punch forward into the centre of Draco’s chest.

Winded, Draco rocked back, and Ron dove on top of him again.

“This is between me and Hermione,” he spat. “Fucking-stay out of it!”

“Not when you won’t _listen_!” Draco hissed, and the heel of his palm met Ron’s broken nose, forcing out a yell of pain. “You don’t fucking _deserve_ her!”

Fury twisted in Ron’s face and he slammed his hand around Draco’s throat.

“No!” shrieked Hermione. She fumbled for her wand, but every possible magical means of separating them had flown out of her head.

“What did you do to her?!” Ron roared.

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” Draco spat, arching away from Ron’s chokehold.

“I swear to Godric, Malfoy, you tell me _right_ now-”

“Maybe nothing,” Draco sneered, lashing out with the words he knew would hurt the most. “Maybe everything. Maybe I _have_ fucked her-”

Hermione couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“You’re a liar!” Ron shouted. “Shut up-!”

“How does it make you feel?” Draco goaded. “Are you jealous that I know what sounds she makes? How she tastes? How she feels when I-”

“I said, shut up!” Ron hollered, almost purple with rage, but Hermione could see the panic in his eyes, set harshly against the savage determination on Draco’s face. Her belly clenched, her entire body vibrating with fury. How _dare_ he?!

Ron’s fingers gripped tighter, tighter. “You don’t know anything!”

And Draco smirked up at him, venom dripping from his tongue. “I know more than you think,” he hissed through strangled lungs. “And I know that she doesn’t _want_ _you_!”

And then Hermione’s breath caught, and Ron faltered, fumbled, limbs slowing as if moving through water. “I-”

Draco hacked out a glob of blood onto the floor. “You’re only deluding yourself,” he spat, each word a sinkhole of contempt, of anger, of betrayal.

“Draco, stop it-” Hermione whispered shakily.

Ron’s face contorted. “That’s- that’s not-”

“She told me!” said Draco viciously, and something tore in Hermione’s heart at the sound of him freely spilling the secrets she had trusted him with. “She doesn’t _want_ you, and she never will! And the _sooner_ you get it through your _thick skull that she_ doesn’t want to _fuck_ you-!”

His voice choked off as Ron shoved him back against the ground with an incoherent grunt of pain and fury, Draco’s head smacking violently against the stone floor. And then Hermione watched with wide, fearful eyes as Ron staggered unsteadily to his feet. There was blood on his nose and his lips and all down his shirt, and his chest was heaving with exertion, but the look in his eyes was simply nothing short of _broken_.

“You told him?” he whispered.

And this time there was no use in lying.

Because Ron _knew_.

And this time, when Draco got to his feet, wearing an expression of grim victory, Ron didn’t punch him.

He drew his wand.

“Ron, NO-” Hermione shrieked, but it was too late.

“ _Confringo_!” he roared.

And Draco ducked.

And the spell hit a patch of unassuming stonework on the far end of the classroom.

And then everything was light, and noise, and motion, as a long-buried explosion rocked the very foundations beneath their feet.

* * *

As the resulting smoke cleared, Hermione spared only the briefest moments of worry for the pounding in her head before her body was shot through with terror, obscuring all else.

Two prone figures lay in the dust and the dirt and the rubble.

She pelted over as fast as her legs could carry her, instinct guiding her towards him before she could make a conscious choice. “Are you, _fuck_ , are you okay? Are you hurt-?”

And the figure in front of her let out a small groan and rolled onto his side. White hair streaked with blood and dirt came into view, and Hermione pushed it shakily out of his eyes without even thinking about it. “I- I’m alright,” Draco said slowly. He blinked up at her in disbelief, holding her gaze with a strength that Hermione was suddenly powerless to overcome.

“You’re bleeding,” he whispered, and his hand came up to touch the side of her head, but she yanked away, even despite the way her heart bloomed and burst at the contact.

“You bastard,” she choked, a tear prickling at the corner of her eye. “ _How_ could you say those things?”

He blinked uncomprehendingly up at her.

And then another voice pierced Hermione’s heart.

“ _Hermione_?”

She turned, unsteadily, achingly, towards the voice and came face to face with Ron, crumpled alone several feet away. Face to face with the raw, shocked look on his face. An expression of hurt. Of betrayal. And Hermione realised what she had done.

_She had chosen Draco._

Ron’s face twisted, and Hermione raced over towards him to correct her mistake, but it was too late. He shoved her away, eyes hardening and jaw setting.

On the other side of the corridor, Draco was watching Hermione. And when she finally gave in to her instinct to look back at him, to check on him, she saw the look on his face.

It was wide, and it was shocked.

And it looked like _hope_.

And then from far above them there came a distant rumble, an intrinsic vibration of stone against stone, and Hermione only just had time to shriek out a _Protego_ before the rubble came crashing down around them.

* * *

Hermione didn’t realise she had lost consciousness until she woke up, her head pounding fit to burst and her tongue as dry as tissue paper.

The light was dim and her eyes were blurry, so it took her a moment to blink the fuzziness away and realise that she was in the Hospital Wing. She pushed herself unsteadily to an upright position, gasping out at the thudding in her temples.

Madam Pomfrey immediately came bustling over from her office, clucking reproachfully. “Oh, come now… Here, drink some of this.”

Hermione shakily took the proffered cup of dark liquid and took a guarded sip, grimacing at the bitter taste. “What happened?”

“You and your compatriots were found in the South Wing,” Madam Pomfrey answered. “The headmistress tells me that a classroom collapsed almost on top of you,” she continued, and perhaps Hermione was imagining the slight tremor in her hands as she gestured for Hermione to drink. “You’ve had some dittany for your wounds, and this is for your concussion, but that’s about it. How are you feeling?”

Hermione considered this in the surface of the cup for a moment. “My, er, my head hurts, but… I’m fine. What time is it?”

“2 o’clock. In the morning.”

Hermione winced. “Sorry.” She looked over at the next bed, and her heart swelled unbidden at the sight of Draco asleep there, even as her stomach twisted with anger. His eyelids looked somehow more delicate than Hermione had ever realised, ringed by fresh, dark bruises.

How was she supposed to reconcile this version of Draco with the one that had been spineless and weak and taken too long to see the light, the one who had befriended her in the South Corridor, the one who had kissed her as if she was the only reason for the air in his lungs, and now the one that had broken Ron’s nose and spat about fucking her as if she was nothing?

“How is he?” she asked, a sudden lump in her throat.

“Both Mr Weasley and Mr Malfoy are in a similar state to yourself. Except” – her eyes roved critically over her face – “for some injuries that I believe… were _intentionally_ inflicted.”

Hermione cringed, her eyes remembering every blow, every punch, every hit that they had traded. All because of _her_. “Are they going to be okay?” she asked.

“Undoubtedly,” Madam Pomfrey responded, matter-of-factly. “Though I do hope that whatever this quarrel is has been resolved. There are already enough injuries to deal with without the students inflicting them on one another. Come now, drink up, drink up.”

_It’s all my fault._

Hermione couldn’t bring herself to respond, choosing instead to drain the cup and sheepishly hand it back. And at that moment, a whirlwind of fury entered the hospital wing in the form of Professor McGonagall, wisps of stray hair streaming out behind her. And Hermione cowered in her bed.

“Of all the hare-brained schemes-!”

“Minerva-”

“Leave us, Poppy.”

Madam Pomfrey scurried obediently back to her office, and McGonagall turned her scathing eyes back on Hermione. “Now, tell me, exactly _what_ did you three think you were doing?!”

Figures under blankets began to stir, and soon Ron and Draco were also sat up in their beds, blinking cowedly. Ron’s nose had clearly been reset, but dried blood stained his lips and cheek. Bruises had flowered to life across his jaw, and Draco was sporting a split lip, a black eye, and set of fingerprint shaped marks around his neck. A pang of guilt flared in her gut.

“Professor, I’m really sorry-” she started, trying desperately to come up with an excuse, any excuse-

“We were just-” started Draco-

“We were rebuilding the castle,” said Ron.

Her lungs crumbled in her chest and she whipped around to face him, horror descending over her features.

_So this was it?_

Months and months of care, of planning, of preparation, of secrecy. All for it to be destroyed in one night. Hermione stole a glance at Draco, who had gone even paler than normal, a look of pure rage on his face.

“It’s been going on all year,” Ron continued, mouth working determinedly. “All through the South Wing. We saw how much of the castle was still in ruins, so we decided to help, but tonight, we got caught by an unexploded spell, and-”

“Do you _realise_ how much danger you were in?” demanded McGonagall. It was clearly not the response Ron had expected, and he jolted in shock. “Have I not _warned_ you about the danger of poking around in restricted areas of the castle?! You are all _incredibly_ lucky that it was only an explosive – that spell could have been _anything_. You could easily all be _dead_ right now!”

Hot shame roiled in the pit of Hermione’s stomach.

“Do you understand,” said McGonagall slowly, “how foolish you were? This castle was a _warzone_ – it is littered with hexes and jinxes which could be triggered by the _slightest_ disturbance. We have not made these areas out-of-bounds simply to inconvenience you – we have done so because every corridor could house a plethora of fatal curses! I thought that out of anyone in this castle, with the exception perhaps of Mr Potter, you three would understand the significance of that! Not to mention that you have received _no_ training whatsoever in restorative magic! And then, on top of all that, to be brawling like a couple of first years, and after curfew, no less-” she broke off, out of breath. “I am at a loss, I really am.”

A tear rolled down Hermione’s face and McGonagall took a short breath to compose herself. “Fifty points from your houses, each of you. The only reason you are getting away without detentions is because I simply _cannot_ spare the professors.” There was a crack of desperation in her voice. “Now, I expect you all to come up with some excuse as to how you lost these points, because I don’t want so much as a _word_ about this to anyone else, do you hear me? I dread to think what could happen if some of the younger years start getting ideas and poking around in the rubble. You will _never_ attempt anything this idiotic again, am I absolutely _clear_?”

All three students nodded mutely, and McGonagall swept from the room, a slight shake in her shoulders the only sign that she wasn’t entirely calm.

The negative pressure ached inside Hermione’s chest.

Draco glared at Ron.

Ron glared at Draco.

Hermione refused to look at either of them.

The anger in the room crackled like lightning.

Draco cleared his throat. “You had no right-”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” said Ron venomously.

“Oh, fuck off, Weasley, if you hadn’t turned up then none of this would have happened-”

“What, so it’s my fault then?!”

“Yes! You cast that fucking spell!”

“You said you _fucked_ her-!”

“Just shut up!” Hermione shrieked. “Both of you!”

They gaped at her. The door of Madam Pomfrey’s office creaked open, and Hermione shot a rapid _Muffliato_ into the air before she could come running over.

“I cannot put into words how angry I am with you both,” she whispered. “I cannot _believe_ you had the nerve to jump to the worst _possible_ conclusion based purely on a hug! It’s the same way I hug Harry, or Neville, or-”

Ron’s cheeks coloured. “But I saw you on the Marauder’s Map-”

“If that’s not stalking, I don’t know what is-” Draco hissed.

And Hermione rounded on him. “And you! I trusted you! I thought you were my friend!”

He flinched but Hermione ignored it.

“I told you those things in confidence, you had _no right_ to blurt them out like that! And then to make up such _vile_ lies just to get a rise out of Ron?! In what world is it okay for you to say any of the disgusting things you said about me?! I am not an _object_!”

Draco’s brows lowered, unable to meet her eyes.

“He’s Malfoy, what do you expect?!” Ron said bitterly, and the hurt in her stomach twisted just a little bit tighter.

“I’m not the one who called her a _slut_!” Draco retorted.

“Shut up!” Hermione snapped. “The point is you _lied_. _Just_ to gain the upper hand in a ridiculous fight that should never have been started in the first place!”

“So it’s not true then?” Ron asked tentatively.

“No!” she exploded, and he shrank back a little.

“Malfoy?” he grunted.

And Draco shot him an ugly glare. “No,” he said shortly, his jaw clenched. “It’s not true.”

There was a heated, electric silence. Hermione’s head was pounding again.

She flopped back into the pillows, squeezing her eyes shut. This day had gone on forever, and she was so entirely, completely sick of it. She felt like she could sleep for a week.

There was a long silence, each of them staring up at the ceiling, avoiding all words for the fear that they were only a spark away from ignition. And then Ron lit a match.

“It wasn’t just because of the hug.”

Hermione’s chest seized.

“Ron-”

“It’s the way you’re always together,” he continued. His voice was quiet but brittle, and his hands twisted in the sheets as he refused to meet her dreading gaze. “It’s the way you’ve _apparently_ been sneaking out three nights a week, according to your ‘best friend’. The way you can barely look at me these days. The way you defend him. It’s the way he _looks_ at you-”

“Shut it,” Draco said quickly.

“There’s something going on. Everyone sees it.” Ron whispered. “Not just me.”

The room had gone silent, weighted, as pressurised as an oxygen cylinder, and Hermione knew that if she dared turn her head a fraction, Draco’s eyes would be locked on her. She couldn’t look at him.

“Tell me it’s not true,” Ron whispered.

“I-” she stammered. But the words wouldn’t come out from between the lips that had once slotted so perfectly against Draco’s mouth.

She tried again.

Nothing.

And as Ron looked on in horror and Draco in disbelief, she closed her treacherous, lying, yearning mouth.

“Oh,” Ron croaked, and it was a guttural sound, torn from grief-stricken lungs. “Oh, fuck.”

How had she messed up so entirely?

The kiss was the last secret, the very last thing she had kept hidden from him. And instead of becoming easier with time, it had turned poisonous and rotten, had festered in her inattention.

Attempting to move on without hurting him had only led to this, this imminent, insurmountable, inevitable admission of guilt, weeks and weeks and millions of years after it should originally have been confessed.

And now it was so much worse.

This decayed truth would demolish any last shred of trust that Ron had in her. And she knew now that she was going to lose what she had been so desperate to keep all along, what she had told herself was more important than anything else, what she had been willing to lie, and hide, and ache for – she would lose _him_.

And now, she had no choice.

“I-” she tried. Truth. It was time for the truth.

A last slow blink, a last clench of her fingers in the sheets, a last moment for Ron to see her as the same girl he had loved for so many years.

And then:

“We kissed,” she whispered, the honesty spilling like cold liquor from her lips.

And how was it possible for such a tiny, inconspicuous sentence to create such a cataclysm?

Because Ron’s face crumpled, constricted, contorted, and then the boy she could always depend on was looking at her through a stranger’s eyes.

“Once. O-over the holidays, when I was angry with you, and-” She broke off, her heart vibrating in her chest. “It was nothing. And I stopped it because of _you_ , because I couldn’t do that to you. And then when I was going to tell you, you wanted us to try again, so I put it out of my head, I ignored it, I… This _wasn’t_ how I wanted to tell you-”

“Oh, that’s a comfort,” he hissed, and her heart sank, all her ridiculous hopes that _maybe it would all be fine_ vanishing in a single beat.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

And that seemed to hurt him most of all.

“No,” he said, suddenly, as if he couldn’t take it anymore. “No, you don’t get to tell me you’re _sorry_.” He ran a shaking hand through his hair, clenching at it like the pain would help. “I trusted you, and you _lied_. I don’t – I can’t – _How could you_?! All these times I thought I was just paranoid. _All_ these times I believed you, and then it turns out you’ve… Merlin, Hermione, it doesn’t matter if it was only once, the fact that you hid it from me is worse because it must have _meant something_. There’s-” He broke off, flinging the blanket on the floor and standing up, wobbling slightly. “There are _so many_ things I would say if _he_ wasn’t here,” he hissed, jutting his jaw acerbically in Draco’s direction. “But I won’t give him the satisfaction.”

“Ron, please-”

“I’m going to leave,” he finished. “And you know what, you got what you wanted.” He shrugged carelessly, palms up. “You’re free. You _fucking deserve_ one another. I hope it makes you happy.”

Draco was sharp with his tongue, each word a perfectly honed arrow set on target with speed and precision. But Ron’s words were blunt objects, wielded more with force than with accuracy, their strength built from the years of needing to prove himself. And they didn’t sting. They _bruised_.

Ron span on his heel and stormed towards the door.

“Mr Weasley, get back to your bed-” started Madam Pomfrey, bustling out of her office, but he made no sign of having heard her, slamming the door behind him as he went. And the sound of the bolts crashing together was suddenly the loudest thing Hermione had ever heard.

Madam Pomfrey huffed in defeat. “Don’t you even _think_ about leaving,” she warned with a last glare at them, and it was pointless really, because Hermione’s limbs had turned to lead and she didn’t think she could get out of bed if she tried.

And then it was just her and Draco, frozen and speechless in guilt and sorrow and anger and shock, sat side by side in their lonely beds in the Hospital Wing, the weight of a hundred unsaid things, a hundred whispered truths hanging in the air between them.

She had never meant for this to happen. She had kept her relationship going with Ron, past all pretence of happiness, in order to avoid hurting him. All of it had been for him. And it had taken this disaster for her to realise how foolish that was. If she had told him before, it would still have hurt, but at least it would have been honest. And she wouldn’t be lying stricken in a hospital bed, having lost him even as a friend, possibly forever.

She couldn’t look up from her lap, and especially not at Draco, her hands latticed together so tightly that her fingertips were numb.

She wanted to hate him.

But the last of her barriers had crumbled, the last wall she hid behind had been torn down, and through her fury and fear, despite all the things he’d said, the agonising, infuriating, blissful _wanting_ was still there. Unchanged. And, though she couldn’t bear to think it, stronger than ever before.

And in that moment, raw with the loss of one of the truest friends she’d ever known, all she wanted was to crawl into his arms.

She slid down in the bed, staring at the ceiling while the clock on the wall ticked a tattoo into her brain.

When Ron had left the tent last year, she hadn’t been able to sleep unless Harry was there. She had lost count of the number of times they had fallen asleep beside one another, desperate for comfort, their clothes dirty and rumpled from wherever they’d been that day. Sleeping next to Harry didn’t contain even a single ounce of romance, of tension, of suggestion, it was purely a need for physical contact, a need to have someone there when they woke up missing Ron more than they could put words to.

But Harry wasn’t here now. And the silence and the loneliness pulled at all her loose threads, unravelling her like a reel of cotton. It ached and it burned and it squeezed, and her body itched with the need for contact.

But Hermione couldn’t turn to Draco. The wound in her chest was raw from his words, and it blazed with anger.

And so she stared up at the ceiling, while the clock counted through every second of every minute that she lay there, _wanting_ him like the awful person she knew she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you and even more thank yous to everyone reading, commenting, subscribing and more! I dance around my room every time I get an AO3 email, and it's all thanks to you wonderful people.  
> Also, there's been an influx of readers in the last couple of weeks, which I can only assume means that you've been sharing this story around, which makes me so so happy I can't even put it into words! Please feel free to keep doing so haha!  
> Next chapter predicted sometimes in the next 4-7 days depending on whether this story grows even more or not :D  
> See you then! <3


	17. 'Maybe You Should Try'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the wonderful response to the last chapter! I'm so glad you liked it! Time for the aftermath...  
> Some lines here paraphrased from The Deathly Hallows.

_“I’m going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword?!”_

_“Please, please, no, we found it, I promise, it’s a copy, just a copy!”_

_“What else did you take? Answer me! CRUCIO!”_

_And Hermione was screaming, and far below her feet so was Ron, and it was the millionth time she had been here, the thousandth time her arm had burned as if lit with petrol, the hundredth time she had pleaded, begged, screamed-_

_But this was the first time that a young man with eyes like silver had turned those eyes on hers instead of looking away, and now he was screaming too-”_

* * *

“Hermione!”

And her eyes snapped open, and there they were, those two perfect orbits of grey, the fair lashes, the cheekbones, the mouth open in an expression of agony that must be mirroring hers. Draco was leaning over her bedside, face inches away from her own, and she was panting and gasping for air.

And his fingers closed around her wrist but she yanked it away, suddenly all too aware, all too cognisant of where she was, of what had happened here.

She sat bolt upright in the bed. She couldn’t _breathe_.

“Don’t,” she gasped, her breath dragging harshly at the back of her throat, but instead of backing off, he leaned closer, his eyes staring into her own.

“You don’t get to do this,” he growled. “I still care if you wake up with nightmares, no matter how angry you are with me!”

“I’m _livid_ -” she hissed, and he set his jaw.

“Stop it,” he scowled. “You can be angry with me in the morning, for fuck’s sake, but right now you’re going to have a fucking panic attack if you don’t calm down.”

And how did Draco Malfoy know what that was, how did he know-?

She gasped in a tiny thread of air, _not enough_ , and then he was placing his hands on her shoulders, just like he had done all that time ago in the South Corridor. Her eyes widened.

And she didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to feel the steadying, grounding pressure of his palms against her, but he was right there, and she couldn’t look away.

“Three hundred,” he said urgently. “What’s three hundred minus eighteen?”

She gaped at him, pulse roaring in her ears.

“What are you talking about-?”

“Just answer the damn question!” he hissed.

“Two – two hundred and, and eighty-two?” she gasped.

“Good. Thirty times twelve.”

“I don’t know-!”

“Yes you do. Thirty times twelve. Go on.”

“Three hundred and sixteen!” she hurled at him.

“What is Golpalott’s third law?”

“That the antidote to a blended poison cannot be- why are you doing this to me?!”

“Granger, I swear to Merlin-”

“It can’t be a blend of its constituent antidotes! Just leave me alone-”

“Can I Apparate out of here?” he pressed, not letting up for a second.

“Of course not!”

“Tell me why.”

“Because you can’t Apparate in or out of the castle!”

“And you read that where?”

“In Hogwarts: A History!”

“Good.”

She paused. She was angrier than ever, and yet her lungs were reopening, her breath was calming, her heart was slowing. “How did you know-?”

He shushed her. “What’s forty-three minus twenty-nine?”

She took a deep breath. “Fourteen.”

“Multiplied by eight?”

She blinked. “Uh, one hundred and… eight? No, twelve-”

“Times three hundred and sixty-one?”

“I don’t-” She broke off when she realised that he was smirking. She let out a sigh, her head falling back to the pillow. “Piss off.”

“I couldn’t resist,” he teased. And then slowly, gradually, he let go, his arms falling to his sides. Her heart was still fast, but it wasn’t beating at her ribs in such a frenzy, her lungs weren’t heaving, she could taste the freshness of the air.

“What was that?” she asked.

And he rubbed at the back of his neck. “A grounding technique.”

“Where did you learn-?”

“A mind healer,” he said, softly. “It’s quite similar to some of my Occlumency techniques. I, er, thought it might work for you.”

And she was so desperate to ask more, but only a few hours ago, he had said such vile things, such detestable things, and now this same Draco Malfoy had apparently seen a healer and knew how to ground someone down from a panic attack… None of it made sense.

Hermione was a logical person. And everything about Draco was illogical.

There was a pause. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“I’m still mad at you,” she said quietly.

“I know.” He sat back on his heels. “Anything else?”

_Thank you._

_I need you._

_Don’t leave._

“No,” she said shortly, sinking back into the covers and rolling away from him. “Go away. I’m going to sleep.”

There was a gentle pause, and then she heard him pad back to his own bed, the sheets rustling.

Hermione couldn’t pay attention to anything other than the absurdly loud _tick_ of the clock. The Hospital Wing was dark, her bedsheets warm, and yet as the minutes ticked by, she knew already that she couldn’t sleep.

_Tick._

_Tick._

If she fell asleep now, the same nightmare would only come back again. She knew it for sure.

Ron was gone. And Harry wasn’t here.

And so she lay awake, her heart pounding under her ribs, the taste of bile in her throat.

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour.

And she couldn’t stand it anymore.

She had no right to ask this of him, not when he had already given her so much, not when her heart was still full of anger, not when Ron had just broken up with her, not when Draco was with Pansy.

But she was selfish.

So she swung her legs out of the bed.

Draco’s eyes were already on her, already awake. Perhaps he hadn’t slept either.

She stepped towards his bed.

“Granger-” he warned.

And a fierce kind of desperation bloomed in her throat. “Can I?” she gritted out.

There was a pause.

“What are you-?”

“I can’t sleep alone,” she admitted. “Not tonight.”

“But you’re angry with me-”

“I am,” she bit out.

He watched her in silence.

“If I had any other choice at all, I’d go back to the dormitory, and I’d find Ginny, or Parvati, or Harry, and I’d stay with them. But I can’t,” she said harshly. “I’ve only got you.”

He swallowed.

The clock ticked.

“What do you need?” he breathed.

“I want to sleep. I- in there.” She gestured helplessly at his bed. “With you. Please.”

And then he was wide-eyed, and he wasn’t breathing, and yet he was still shuffling desperately back to make room for her, as if he was under some kind of spell, as if he couldn’t possibly say no. His chest stuttered, his hands clenched the sheets so tight it was as if they might rip, and his lips parted, staring at her with an expression that Hermione couldn’t even begin to understand.

And she slid delicately into the bed beside him, moving every limb so gently, so slowly, to ensure that she didn’t broach the resolute barrier of empty space between them. She pulled the covers up to her chin over her filthy school uniform, flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling.

It was nothing sordid. Nothing romantic. It was comfort. Pure and simple.

God, she hoped Pansy wouldn’t mind.

Draco was still facing her, probably perched precariously on the edge of the mattress but not saying a word about it, holding his breath, not daring to touch her. His eyes were wide and uncertain, his hair was flat and grimy against his head, his skin was ashen, his lips were chapped, and the bruising round his eyes was dark and ugly. He had betrayed her.

And she still wanted him.

They stared at one another in silence for a moment.

“Thank you,” she murmured eventually. “For grounding me.”

He swallowed thickly, the delicate lines of his bruised neck shifting infinitesimally. “You’re welcome.”

There was a heavy pause, and the guilt trickled down the back of her throat.

“I’m being selfish,” she whispered, “to tell you I can’t forgive you with one breath, and then take up room in your bed the next.”

And she wasn’t ready to meet his eyes, but she was forced to, when the blankets shifted, and the pillow dipped, and there he was, closer than ever, barely millimetres away.

“You really _can’t_ forgive me?” he asked quietly. “Can’t? Or just haven’t yet?”

And Hermione wished she didn’t feel such a strong pull towards him. It was like he was something that she had never ever seen before, something wild and new, and she couldn’t stop herself trying to figure him out.

“You hurt me just so you could hurt Ron,” she whispered. “You talked about me, about my body – as if I was an _object_. I trusted you with intensely private things about my life, and you used them as a weapon.”

His face was stricken. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am-”

“Well, maybe you should try,” she breathed.

And now it was Draco’s turn to stare at her as if she were some foreign, untranslatable thing.

“Fine. You _are_ selfish,” he whispered, and she braced herself for the anger, for the rage, for the falling out. “But you’re also kind.”

She felt her lips part in surprise, the air rushing in.

“Because you protect your friends with the same intensity you protect yourself,” he continued.

A beat of shocked silence.

“And you bottle up your feelings too much, but that means you’re a really good listener when other people want to talk about _their_ feelings.”

Her eyes flickered closed.

“You’re often scared of the new. You rely on what you know, what’s familiar, what’s safe. But you’re also so, _so_ smart, and what you know is _formidable_. So your instinct is often right. And when you make bad decisions, it’s usually because you’ve put someone else’s feelings above that instinct.”

Her heart was racing, her pulse bounding impossibly fast.

“So yes,” he said. “You _are_ selfish. But the right person can see that those flaws are the same things that make you great.” His voice was fragile, hesitant. “And that person won’t have to ignore your flaws just to love you.”

“Draco…”

His name fell from her lips, and his eyes chased it, those gentle grey irises roving over her in some way that made her both vulnerable and safe at the same time.

It would only take the barest movement now to press her lips to his, to wrap her arms around his body and give in to every whim and desire and need.

But she and Ron had broken up last night.

She was sleep-deprived, and wounded, and weary.

And Pansy was waiting for Draco.

And she wouldn’t let him do to Pansy what she had done to Ron.

So instead of leaning in, instead of winding shaking fingers into his hair, instead of kissing that burning, intense gaze off his face, she swallowed heavily.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

And he nodded, stiffly, distantly, something in his beautiful eyes cracking as if he’d given up a secret.

“It was the right thing to do,” he said gently. “Telling him. You did the right thing.”

She felt his hand move under the covers as if to comfort her, and she jerked away, knowing that if she let him, the last vestiges of anger she clung to would melt like candyfloss, and she’d be lost. “Roll over,” she whispered, and he stiffened. “Please.”

And again, as if entranced, he did as she asked, rolling onto his other side so he was no longer facing her. Every muscle in his body was taut, as if waiting for the slightest word, the gentlest touch. Her eyes roved over the back of his head, the flash of pale skin at his neck, the stained school shirt, the creases of the sheets where his hands were bunched so tightly.

And, shaking, her heart pounding harder than ever, she tucked the sheets closer around herself, placed her wrists flush against his spine, and gently leant her forehead against the nape of his neck, melding into the warmth between his shoulder blades. It was hesitant. Delicate.

And she felt him tense, felt the harsh intake of breath.

What was he thinking? What was his expression? Were his eyes closed, or was he wide-eyed in shock? Were his eyebrows drawn together in a harsh line of concentration, or were they lifted, hopeful, uncertain?

She wanted desperately to see his face, and yet she knew that if she did, she might just end up doing something she’d regret.

And then he relaxed, curving back minutely enough to press back against her chest, and she gave in at last, curling her body around him like a cat. She was the wrong height, her arms were too long, she was all wrong, but he let her mould herself to him, never pushing, never assuming. She laid her head down into the pillow, finding her lips so impossibly close to his neck, squeezing her eyes shut against all the _nearly-theres_.

He smelt like smoke, and warmth, and something else soft and male that she couldn’t name because it was just _Draco_ , something she had only ever smelt a handful of times before, in front of a fireplace, over a glass, in a deserted corridor.

There was something magical between them, something that Hermione didn’t understand at all, and still somehow far too well. It was dark and electric, a sort of pulling, drawing force that had her feeling like the string of fate that had bloomed all those months ago was now tied directly to her heart, bunching them together. It was illogical, and inexplicable, but it had a power over her heart and mind and body that was very much real.

In the morning, she would remember all the things he had said. And she would have to keep her distance until she could forgive him for the way he’d spat so casually about her body, the way he’d chosen Pansy, the way he confused her and led her on and pushed her away, the way that even as her chest ached with anger, her heart flared with yearning.

_You don’t deserve her._

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice so soft she almost missed it.

Her heart flowered, blossomed, bloomed. She was lost, and she always would be.

“I don’t forgive you,” she whispered into his skin, and he shivered against her. “…Yet.”

And she felt the tension leave his body in a puff of astonished breath. “That’s okay,” he murmured, and something in the inflection of his voice was as if she had granted him some unbelievable, priceless gift. “I’ll… I’ll be here when you do.”

And then tiredness infused her body like mist, and her hands relaxed in the fabric of his shirt, the muscles of his back tall and broad against her chest.

And he stayed poised, careful and ready, like a watchman with his charge, until sleep finally claimed her.

* * *

Hermione ended up in the Prefects’ bathroom again.

Madam Pomfrey, who had found Hermione sleeping peacefully in her own bed on Saturday morning (after a panicked departure from Draco’s side at 6am), was satisfied enough with their progress to discharge them the following morning.

They had remained silent as they left the Hospital Wing to head back to their respective dormitories, tongues and hearts weighed down by the events of the last twenty-four hours. Hermione couldn’t bring herself to speak, because it would only remind her of all the ways he had helped her, and also all the ways he had hurt her.

Good grades and a highly logical brain were all well and good, but she had no idea what to do now that it had come to deciding the future of a friendship with someone that she wanted desperately to be something more, who had recently treated her as far less.

It was one thing to be irrevocably drawn to him in ways that ran so deep it scared her to think about, and another thing entirely to forgive him in one night, no matter how gently he’d lain beside her, no matter what wonderful words he’d said, no matter how safe she felt nestled between his shoulder blades.

Every action was tinged with the guilt of what she’d done to Ron.

And so after little more recognition than a slight nod before they parted ways, she headed straight for the Prefects bathroom.

That nod didn’t speak of months’ rebuilding work.

It didn’t speak of hissed arguments or betrayals of trust.

It didn’t speak of a night spent in the same bed.

It was just… empty.

And Hermione hated it.

She bent to the taps on the Prefects’ bath and switched on three at random before yanking her hair out its band. And then her ugly, filthy, grimy robes were torn off and flung in a corner, her shoes and socks, her school shirt, her trousers, her underwear.

And finally, naked and shivering, her wild messy hair tumbling over dirt-streaked shoulders, she climbed into tub piled high with rose-scented bubbles. Every muscle and tendon and ligament in her body was sore, strung-out, aching like she had run a physical marathon as well as a mental one.

She was too exhausted to do much else except float over to the steps set into the side of the tub, the sensitive skin of her thighs grating over the stippled stone. And she lay her head back against the edge of the bath, her collarbones tickling the surface of the water, closed her eyes, and allowed the tears to fall.

It wasn’t ugly like it had been in the artifact room.

It wasn’t raw with anger like last night.

It was silent, vulnerable, and lonely. It was grief.

The water soothed her aching body, lapping up around it like the caress of a lover. And if she closed her eyes, the tears mingling with the bathwater, she could imagine it permeating through into every cell of her body, refreshing and cleansing every pore, every capillary, every muscle fibre. It worked its way up from her toes through her calves, her thighs, her pelvis, her stomach, her breasts, her shoulders, her neck, her forearms, her palms, her fingertips. And she let out a breath, as if it was gasp of balled-up tension that had been building for months.

This was the body that Ron had wanted, the body that wanted desperately to want him back. This was the body that had always too vulnerable before him, the skin that had prickled at his touch. These were the lips that had always hesitated to kiss him, the tongue that had hid the truth for months. These were the hands that had healed him, and loved him, and taken care of him, but were meant only for platonic affection. This was the body that had betrayed him.

This was the body that was drawn to Draco despite all of his hard edges and sharp words. This was the body that had melted under his touch, that body that wished she could go back and tell him she wanted him before he’d given up on her, before he’d chosen Pansy instead. These were the hands that had marvelled at the softness of his hair, the lips that had brushed the nape of his neck while she slept. This was the body that jumped and fired and coiled with want when she was around him in a way she had never experienced with Ron. This was the body he had betrayed.

And this was the body that was hers, the body that had grown with her, carried her, propelled her forward in life and in love and in loss. This was the body that had survived a war, had destroyed a piece of Voldemort’s soul, had sat on the back of a _dragon_ , had cried and raged and lived and _roared_. This was the body that could itch and desire, the body that wasn’t broken just because she didn’t want the boy she was supposed to. This was the hair that she would never manage to control, these were the teeth that were still a fraction too large, these were the hands that could replicate a potion by memory, the hands that could write an essay in five minutes, the hands that knew how to swish and flick to gain a perfect score every time. This was the mind that would always understand books so much better than her own emotions.

This was the body that she loved fiercely.

And she owed it to this body to take responsibility for what had happened.

She had hurt Ron by delaying the inevitable. And now their relationship, and maybe their friendship, was over.

She had hurt Draco by pushing him away after kissing him like her life depended on it. And now he was with Pansy.

She had hurt Parvati by expecting her to be complicit in her secrets and lashing out when the truth emerged.

She had hurt Pansy by wanting Draco.

And she had hurt herself.

She slid further into the water, ducking her head below the surface, smoothing her hair back and away from her face. The soap stung minutely at her eyelids, the bubbles tickling her nose, but the warm, muted silence was glorious.

Breaking the surface again was like entering a new world. The air was fresh and cool against the skin that streamed with water, her eyelids blinking back the droplets that clung to her lashes, her heart thumping comfortingly against her diaphragm.

She couldn’t take back what she’d done.

But she could acknowledge it, and she could take responsibility for it.

And that was what she was going to do.

* * *

Hermione was jolted suddenly from her thoughts.

She wasn’t sure what had done it at first, but as a blurry silver shape approached, she realised with a start that it was a Patronus, appearing through the wall and flying straight towards her.

It was a peacock, shimmering and pearlescent through the enchanted steam rising from the bath. Her breath caught as it perched on the edge of the bath, and then it opened its mouth and spoke with the voice of Parvati Patil.

“Hermione? Is everything alright? We didn’t see you at all last night, and after what happened at dinner we weren’t sure – and then Gryffindor lost a ton of points and Ron’s apparently in the dormitory all beaten up and – anyway, I just wanted to make sure that _you’re_ okay. I know I said too much last night, and you probably don’t want to talk to me, but please let us know how you’re doing.”

The Patronus blinked at her, then turned, and evaporated into mist.

She had to apologise.

She clutched at her wand, but knew that she wouldn’t be able to manage a Patronus in response.

Climbing out of the bath and conjuring a towel, she wrapped it around herself. She would get dressed, head back to the dormitory, and spend the remainder of her Saturday attempting to mend her relationship with Parvati.

She had just reached for her bra when there was a knock at the door.

And then there was Parvati’s voice again. “Hermione, are you in here?”

She clutched tighter at the towel. “How did you know where I was?”

“I followed my Patronus,” Parvati mumbled from outside. “Sorry, you’re probably trying to have a quiet time, I’ll leave you alone-”

“No!” Hermione cried quickly. “I’m in a towel, you’re, er, you’re fine. Come in.”

She cast a quick _alohomora_ and wandered back over to the bath. She spelled the towel to hold its place, and carefully crouched down to sit on the edge, toes dangling in the water. From behind her, she heard the sound of the door opening, then careful footsteps towards her.

A brief pause, a scuffle as Parvati removed her shoes and socks, and then she was plopping herself down to sit by her side, feet dipping into the water. Their toes traced parallel eddies into the bubbles.

“I’m so glad you sought me out,” Hermione said quietly. “I’m really sorry. I should have treated you better than I did last night.”

Parvati reached for her hand and squeezed it tightly. “Thanks, Hermione. I’m sorry too.” There was a pause. “But are you doing alright? I was worried about you.”

And Hermione blinked. She was so lucky to have someone like this.

“I’m okay,” she mumbled.

Another silence.

“I have to ask,” Parvati murmured. “What happened this year? With you, and Ron, and Draco and… yeah, all of it. Of course you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want, but… I’m here, and I’ll listen, and I won’t judge you, no matter what. If you want.”

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t deserve you,” she whispered.

“You do,” Parvati said gently. She grinned. “Even if you were a bit rude yesterday.”

Hermione hung her head.

“Hey,” Parvati continued, nudging her. “You just snapped. We all do it. And you apologised afterwards. We’re _completely_ fine. That’s what friends are for.”

Hermione hoped that the overwhelming gratitude was as loud in her smile as in her chest.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” she checked. “It’s a long story.”

Parvati wiggled her feet in the water. “I’m comfortable,” she grinned.

And so Hermione took a deep breath, feeling it inflate her chest, the air diffusing into every cell. And then she let it go.

And she told Parvati everything.

The itch.

The Fixer-Upper club.

The blossoming private friendship in the South Corridor, and the public one in the library.

The argument with Ron.

The kiss.

The realisation that Draco was interested in Pansy.

The way she’d fled from the hurt, straight back into Ron’s arms.

That fateful day in the library with Pansy, Draco and Ron.

The way she had run to Draco.

The hug.

The fight.

The betrayal.

The explosion.

The truth.

The breakup.

The panic attack.

And the night in Draco’s bed.

And Parvati stayed quiet, stayed listening, watching her feet as they swirled in the water, nodding intermittently and making sympathetic noises in her throat.

By the time she’d finished, the droplets from Hermione’s shoulders had dried, her hair had turned into ropes, and her toes were wrinkled.

There was silence.

And Parvati let out a breath. “That’s a lot,” she said quietly.

Hermione nearly laughed. “Yeah.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about you and Ron,” she murmured. “Not because I thought you were perfect together, or anything, but because… I know how much he means to you.”

And Hermione had to squeeze her eyes shut. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“I should have realised at the Christmas party,” Parvati said. “What you said about finding Draco attractive, I should have known that meant, you know… more than that. That there was something there you didn’t feel for Ron.”

“I didn’t really want to admit it to myself,” Hermione muttered. “I was such an idiot. You know, I _really_ thought that if I ignored it, those feelings would vanish and I’d suddenly want Ron instead.”

Parvati let out a soft snort. “Things would be so much easier if we could control who we want.”

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“So what are you going to do?” she asked, winding a strand of hair around her finger.

Hermione bit her lip and stared down into the bubbles around her calves. “I don’t know,” she murmured.

“Do you think… anything might ever happen with Draco?”

Hermione sighed. “I really don’t know. I… I care about him so, _so much_ , but I’m also furious with him. With the things he said. And anyway, it’s far too soon with everything that happened last night, not to mention that he… I really think he likes Pansy.”

Parvati pursed her lips slightly. “I’m er, not sure if he’s Pansy’s type.”

“I don’t know, Parvati. She told me in the library that she was interested in him.”

Parvati’s hand stilled from where it had been winding into her hair. “She did?”

“Well,” Hermione admitted. “She asked me how she was supposed to go about making a move. She didn’t name him outright or anything, but she said that I knew him best. I mean, who else could it be? _Harry_?”

“Right,” said Parvati, and there was a small smile at the corner of her mouth. “What did you say?”

Hermione cringed. “I told her to go for it, didn’t I?”

“Well,” continued Parvati, and now it was difficult not to see the smile on her face. “In that case, don’t you think it’s strange that they’re not together yet?”

Hermione’s brows pulled into a frown. “What are you saying?”

“Nothing,” Parvati said quickly. “I just… I think you have more of a chance than you realise.” 

Hermione didn’t know what to make of that, so she settled instead for summoning her school shirt, spelling it clean, and pulling it on over her towel. Parvati kindly averted her eyes.

“I just don’t know,” Hermione sighed eventually. “Before I figure all that out, I need to come to terms with the fact that Ron and I are… no longer anything at all. A lot happened last night… And I don’t know how long it’ll take me to get used to.”

Parvati laid a gentle hand on her wrist and squeezed, offering a sad smile. “You can do this,” she said warmly. “I’m here for you any time you need to vent, or cry, or… whatever.”

Hermione’s heart swelled. “Thank you,” she said. “So, so much. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” And then a thought occurred to her, and her mouth dropped. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, I’ve been so preoccupied with all this that I hadn’t even thought to ask how _you_ are!”

Parvati grinned, her warm brown eyes crinkling with affection. “That’s alright,” she laughed. “I’ve got nothing going on that’s nearly as exciting as having two boys fight over me.”

“They weren’t fighting over me!”

And Parvati laughed. “I know, I know. But even a mild discussion would still be more exciting than anything I’m doing. Most of the time it’s just me, my N.E.W.T. study notes, and the odd morning with my head in Professor McGonagall’s fireplace, you know.”

“How are the healer sessions going?”

A slow smile spread across Parvati’s face. “Really well,” she answered. “There’s so many things I’ve learned. And things are getting easier. Like obviously, I don’t miss Lavender any less. Not at all. But I… I’ve been able to let missing her become a… nice thing. Like a fond memory. So instead of it being raw and painful, every time she comes into my mind, I just send a little wave up to the stars with a ‘I’m thinking of you’. And it’s… good.”

“She’d like that,” said Hermione softly.

“She would,” Parvati beamed, and her eyes tilted skyward. “And she’d be pleased to see that I’m working hard, and making new friends, and… well. That I’m happy.”

“I’ll bet. She’d be so proud of you.”

Parvati’s hand slotted over her palm. “Thanks, Hermione.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes more, before Hermione finally pulled her feet out of the bathwater with a contented sigh, wrapping her arms around her knees. “When I’m ready,” she said, “I’ll apologise to Ron. And I’ll figure out how I feel about Draco. And then maybe I’ll come clean and tell both of them… everything. What happened, and why, and… Yeah. It’ll be hard, I know, but I think… maybe I should embrace that, rather than taking the easy way out all the time. I’ve learnt my lesson. Maybe doing the hard thing and telling them exactly how I feel will be worth it.”

She couldn’t see Parvati’s face, the younger girl staring contemplatively into the bath, but there was something hard and blazing in her posture. “You’re right,” Parvati said determinedly. “Even if you think you’re not _supposed_ to feel that way.”

Hermione paused. “Is something going on?”

And Parvati shook her head silently. “No,” she whispered. “I – I’m wonderful.”

Hermione offered her a hand, pulling her to her feet, and enveloped her in a hug. “You’re so strong,” she whispered into Parvati’s hair.

And her strength squeezed into Hermione’s every pore as she held her tight.

* * *

Sadly, not everyone was as understanding as Parvati.

Although Ron had mercifully kept the details of what had happened to himself, the news that he and Hermione had broken up was the talk of the school within a day. It seemed that the vast majority of people had been certain of the longevity of their relationship, and the news was met with a mixture of shock, denial, and derision. Perhaps it was something to do with the media attention that had greeted the beginning of their relationship last year, but apparently everyone knew they had been dating, most people had been convinced they would continue to do so for the foreseeable future, and a large number of people that Hermione had not even met before appeared to be saddened by the end of the relationship.

The corridors were alive with whispering and gawking wherever Hermione went, the student body buzzing with theories about what could have happened. She had thought that the days of her love life being public knowledge had ended after the Triwizard Tournament, but apparently not. She couldn’t so much as set foot in the great hall without hearing some unfamiliar third year sniff back tears as if she was a close personal friend.

The Gryffindor Common Room was even worse because people felt like they knew her well enough to ask her what had happened. After a few unsuccessful attempts at an evasive ‘it just didn’t work out’, Hermione reached the end of her tether and wound up snapping at a small wide-eyed fifth year that it was none of her business, while her equally small and wide-eyed friends looked on in horror.

If she had thought that the news of the breakup travelled quickly, it was nothing compared to the news that Hermione was apparently ‘distraught’ about it. And soon everyone knew.

The worst was Ginny. She was clearly torn between wanting to be supportive of Hermione and yet also needing to be there for her brother. It resulted in a painful awkwardness wherein Ginny refused to speak to her, but across the room her eyes shone with a regret that Hermione couldn’t bear to look at.

She thought she preferred the waspish comments that ‘Ron deserves better’ that she occasionally caught wind of in the corridors. At least it was something she could agree with.

Only slightly better was Harry. He had also chosen to avoid her, but at least it was because he was frequently seen in the company of Ron, who Hermione imagined would likely self-combust if Harry chose to speak to her in front of him. On the rare occasions she caught Harry’s eye, there was something unfamiliar and guarded there, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Ron had elected to tell him what had really happened, and if every time Harry saw her, all he could see was a girl that had cheated on his best friend.

Instead, Hermione snuck down for meals at inopportune times so as to avoid all traces of Ron and Harry, she worked up in her dormitory rather than in the library, and she avoided the Common Room like the plague.

For the first time, she was inordinately grateful that she and Ron didn’t share too many of the same classes.

In Muggle Studies, she was suddenly more aware than ever of Draco’s eyes on the back of her neck, and it took almost every ounce of willpower in her body not to turn and face him. Even if she had managed to sort through her rapidly oscillating emotions from Friday night (which she hadn’t), the last thing she wanted to do was fuel the Hogwarts rumour mill with the idea that she had left Ron for Draco.

The tiny fragment of truth it contained was the perfect size to render the idea terrifying.

Hermione had had to stop pretending that she didn’t want him. It was as if she’d developed an extra sense that alerted her to his presence, whether it was in the classroom, passing silently in the corridors, or sat at the Slytherin table with his back to her. It was constant and all-consuming, and yet even as she forced her gaze to slide away like sand, she longed to talk to him, longed for his attention, for his smile.

She hadn’t realised quite how much the Fixer-Upper Club had meant to her until it was gone. She missed the way they worked side by side, the way they talked, and the way they stayed silent. She missed the way he made her laugh, the way he made her feel so listened to, the way that their conversation flowed as naturally as rainwater. She missed seeing his smile, missed watching him murmur an incantation as his wand poured magic, missed the way he’d look at her.

She missed him.

With her unoccupied thoughts so frequently turning to Draco, she attempted to focus her attentions once more to her studies and to the ever-looming prospect of job hunting after school. The truth of it was that she simply didn’t feel ready to go out into the world and start her career, no matter how hard she tried to get excited about the idea of training to become a Healer, or joining the Ministry, or any one of the other millions of options she considered. She’d spent the majority of the last three years focused on helping Harry, and the idea of school being over and her suddenly having to become an adult felt practically immoral. 

She wasn’t ready.

As the days of isolation turned into weeks, and staying away from Draco got harder and harder, Parvati was a constant presence by Hermione’s side, a level-headed, positive-minded ally who always seemed to know exactly what to say. She was clearly preoccupied with schoolwork, and disappeared off several evenings a week to spend extra time in the library, where Hermione still refused to go, but her friendship never wavered, even as Hermione essentially ostracised herself from the rest of the student body.

She was determined that no one would know what had gone on with her and Ron, no one would know what had gone on with her and Draco, and no one would know that despite the mutual hurt on all sides, it was Draco that she missed most of all.

That she missed so much it hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all your continued support and love!  
> Plus: don't forget to check out all the other amazing works in the 50K Classic comp!


	18. 'A Little Preoccupied'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little early with this update but that's because we have two weeks to get four chapters out!  
> Here it is everyone... the one we've all been waiting for ;)

Hermione had just about gotten used to this strange new Hogwarts existence when Luna Lovegood wandered into her dormitory one weekend as if it was a total accident that she’d climbed up the stairs.

She ambled vaguely towards Hermione’s bed where she and Parvati had been sat studying, and sank gently down beside them. Hermione blinked up at her over the top of her Ancient Runes textbook, trying not think about how Luna’s blonde hair had made her think of Draco for one moment too long. “Er-”

“Good afternoon,” said Luna dreamily. “Ginny said I could find you here, I hope that’s alright.”

Parvati grinned bemusedly. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, happily and luckily,” Luna answered. “I’m actually here to talk to Hermione, though.”

Hermione saw Parvati stifle a laugh.

“How can I help, Luna?” she asked uneasily.

“You’ve not eaten in the great hall with us for a while now,” Luna started. She adjusted her robes and settled further onto the bed, a necklace of what looked like fork prongs swinging out from under her collar. “I’d been waiting for you to be brave enough to come down again, but it sounds like you need more time.”

Hermione’s breath stuck in her throat. “Oh-”

“I don’t mean any offence,” Luna continued, her eyes soft. “I imagine that eating lunch with your ex-boyfriend and the friends that haven’t really been your friends lately wouldn’t be very enjoyable.”

Hermione blinked.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to you before,” she smiled, and put a gentle hand on Hermione’s wrist. “Have you moved on from the ice cream phase into the one where I should point out some of Ron’s flaws yet?”

Hermione was glad that Parvati knew her well enough to answer, because she was shell-shocked.

“Yes,” laughed Parvati. “That sounds quite fun, actually.”

“Aright,” said Luna. She leant forward almost conspiratorially. “He can say some rather unkind things, you know,” she whispered. “And he’s definitely spat mashed potato at me a few times over dinner. You too, I think, actually.”

Hermione’s mouth twisted into a grin. “Thanks, Luna.”

“Oh, any time,” she beamed. “Anyway, I have an idea. And I wanted to hear what you think.”

“Me?” Hermione asked, thinking guiltily back on all the times she’d publicly disparaged Luna’s ideas and beliefs.

“Yes,” said Luna, unfazed. “I wanted to make sure it was a good idea, and I know you’re always honest with me.”

And Hermione blinked, taken aback. Honest wasn’t exactly a word she’d been very comfortable associating with herself lately.

She exchanged a surprised glance with Parvati. “What’s your idea?” she asked carefully.

And Luna tapped her wand absent-mindedly against her chin as she spoke. “A celebration.”

There was a beat of silence.

“A… celebration?”

“Yes,” Luna said mildly. “When my mum died, we didn’t want to hold a memorial service. We held a celebration of her life instead. We covered the house in flowers, and played her favourite music, and wore bright colours, and talked and sang and celebrated all her favourite things in life.”

Hermione watched, almost transfixed, as Luna brushed a curl of blonde hair behind her ear. “And I think we should do something in May, to commemorate the people that we lost in the war. Both wars. I know some people had suggested a memorial, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. There’s already too much sadness here, and not enough people feel comfortable talking about it. I think we should celebrate the freedom that they all fought for.”

Hermione’s book fell onto the duvet. “Like a… a school event?”

“Anyone that wants to come,” Luna replied. “A whole school event, a time for everyone to come together and celebrate the people we miss. You could do a speech, maybe? I imagine a lot of parents would want to come too. You know, for Fred, Colin, Vincent…” She turned her pale eyes on Parvati. “Lavender.”

Parvati swallowed, eyes casting down, and Hermione put a hand on her arm.

“That… actually sounds like… a really good idea,” she said slowly. And before she could help it, she was thinking about what Draco might think, whether he’d want to take part-

Parvati nodded. “It is. Just… what if people want to spend the day mourning instead?”

And Luna smiled tentatively. “I don’t know. But I think that celebrating what someone brought to the world is the same as mourning what the world lost with their death.”

Hermione let the words seep deep into her skin, past layers of epithelium, into capillaries and interstitium and tiny nerve endings. She wanted to tell Draco those exact words, and the urge clenched in her chest. She took a breath, suddenly so new and fresh, her lungs clean and free. “How can we make this happen?”

And Luna put her chin on her fist. “I think you should talk to Harry.”

* * *

It was times like this that Hermione wished she had the Marauder’s Map.

She had been waiting for an opportunity to get Harry alone for days, but it seemed to be impossible between Ron, Ginny, and an assortment of other loud Gryffindors that tended to go rather quiet whenever she passed by.

Eventually, a Potions lesson presented itself. A well-timed charm as the hour drew to a close resulted in Harry’s bottle of salamander tears throwing itself off the desk and smashing rather spectacularly across the floor. Harry knelt to scrub it from the stone while the rest of the class filed out, and Hermione steeled herself against searching for Draco in the crowd before she cornered him.

“Harry,” she said gently.

The crouching Gryffindor tried simultaneously to ignore her and respond, resulting in him making a strangled sort of noise and performing a bizarre dance step on the spot.

Hermione threw him a pleading look and his shoulders sank, gaze falling cowedly to the floor. “What’s up?” he sighed, slowly getting to his feet.

“Can we talk?”

He shifted awkwardly, fingers drumming against his thigh. “Oh, Hermione, I don’t know-”

“Please,” she asked, willing her expression to tell him how much she needed this. “I need your help.”

He frowned desperately.

“It’s not for me,” she said quietly. “It’s for Luna, and you, and Ron, and… a lot of other people too.” _Draco_. “Please?”

He chewed his lip and got to his feet, brows knitting together. “Come on.”

Harry led her down the hallway a little way, then pulled her into an empty classroom.

Hermione settled herself atop a desk while he paced back and forth, shooting furtive glances at the door every few steps. She tried to wait for him to settle before speaking, but his pacing showed no signs of abating.

Eventually she had had enough.

“Will you stop?” she asked. “I’m your friend, not Voldemort himself.”

And something in his face drew together as he stopped dead. “I don’t know. I’m _not_ sure I know you that well anymore, actually.”

Oh. He knew.

“Is there something you want to ask me?” she suggested frostily.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” he countered.

They stared at one another.

“Harry-”

“Did you cheat on him?”

She gulped. “I…”

He folded his arms.

“I kissed someone else,” she whispered. “Ron and I were taking some time apart when it happened, and it was a mistake, and I stopped immediately, but… it still happened. And I couldn’t be more sorry.”

Harry’s eyelids flickered. “Ron won’t tell me who it was,” he said softly. “But I have a feeling I know.”

Hermione swallowed.

“I just… what happened to you? I don’t understand,” he breathed. “You and Ron were so happy, how did this happen-?”

“I _do_ love him,” she burst out. “But I… it took this happening for me to realise that I love him as… a friend. And nothing more.”

Harry’s mouth twisted. “He’s in _bits_ , Hermione-”

“I know!” she almost shouted. “I know.”

They stared at one another.

“If I could take it all back, I would,” she whispered.

He was silent, his shoulders rigid. “But…?”

She squeezed her eyelids shut. “But I… the things I feel for- it’s just… I couldn’t help it, I tried to stop it, but I, I couldn’t-”

“It’s Malfoy, isn’t it?”

And Hermione looked up at him helplessly, feeling like she was folding in on her herself.

She didn’t need to answer.

She could never control her reactions when it came to Draco.

Harry stalked away, pounding out his frustration into the tired floorboards beneath his feet. “Fuck, Hermione.”

“I know,” she whispered.

There was a silence.

“Look Harry, I don’t expect you to forgive me, or suddenly be okay with it, but you’re… you’re still my friend. And I need your help for something. _Please_.”

His brows furrowed even deeper, indecision and anguish written into every line. “What is it?” he asked carefully.

“We want to do an event in May to celebrate the lives of everyone we lost in the war. It was Luna’s idea. We want to celebrate what they fought for, and bring everyone together, you know.”

His eyebrows lifted before he returned to unease. “Why do you need my help?”

“Because I’m a pariah right now. And in trouble with McGonagall. And although everyone loves Luna, they won’t listen to her. But people listen to _you_. And if you talk to the professors, if you get everyone on board… _you_ can make it happen. Luna wanted me to ask you specifically.”

“I…” He tailed off, slumped into a seat, and put his head on his fist. “I don’t know. I… just don’t know if I can take responsibility for-”

“Think about it,” she pressed. “If not for me… for Ron.”

Harry shot her an incredulous look.

“It’ll be good for him,” she pleaded. “For everyone. Think about Tonks, and Lupin. Sirius. Mad-Eye. Your parents-”

“Stop-” he gritted out.

“ _That’s_ why we have to do this, Harry. We need to celebrate what they did. What did Luna say? Something about making the most of the freedom they gave us. Don’t you think they deserve that?”

He gulped.

There was an agonising silence.

And then he carded an uncertain hand through his hair. “Okay,” he whispered. “I’ll do it.”

She broke into a smile. “Oh, Harry, _thank you_. Thank you so much. Will you come to speak to McGonagall with me?!”

“Now?”

“Maybe a little later?” she laughed breathlessly. “Can I meet you after dinner?”

He fought a visibly losing battle with himself for a moment before standing up. “I… Yeah. Okay. Fine.” He puffed out a heavy breath. “I’ll meet you outside the Great Hall.”

_They were doing this._

Hermione could barely contain her relief as she jumped off the table and slung her bag over her shoulder. She headed towards the door before she felt Harry’s hand on her shoulder, and she turned in surprise.

“Are you and Malfoy… a thing?” he asked hesitantly.

She shook her head, taken aback. “I… we… No. He’s got Pansy, and I’m still sorting through how I feel-”

“Do you love him?”

The air flew out of her lungs.

Her mind emptied.

Her blood dried in her veins.

_Love._

“I-” she croaked. “I don’t know-”

Harry’s jaw worked silently. “Because I think I could understand, if that was the case. Maybe.”

Hermione was falling off a cliff face, fingertips scrabbling through the loose earth that had been giving way for months.

“Harry…”

He searched her face. “You do,” he said, finally. “You… were never like this about Ron.”

 _Freefall_.

Harry’s hand dropped. “I can’t apologise for taking Ron’s side. I’m… I’m still angry that it took you this long, and months of hurting him, to figure it out. But I… you’re still my friend. And it’ll take a lot more time, but I… I think I could be okay with it. Eventually. If it matters to you.”

And after weeks and weeks and months and months of falling, Hermione hit the ground gently. Her tongue was too heavy, and her throat was too thick, and her lungs were too small, but she was safe.

Unbruised.

This was a soft place to land.

It would be okay.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

And Harry nodded, as if that was all, and opened the door.

* * *

The dinner hour passed ridiculously slowly, but the walk up to McGonagall’s office afterwards while they discussed specifics of the event passed in the blink of an eye, and soon they were on their way up the spiral staircase, Hermione’s heart beating to distraction. She wished Draco was here.

“Enter,” McGonagall said, and Harry pushed the door open, Hermione ducking under his arm on the way in.

The Headmistress was visibly surprised to see them, jabbing her quill back in an inkpot. Behind her head, Dumbledore appeared to be sleeping in his portrait.

“Afternoon, Professor,” Hermione said quickly.

Her lips pursed. “Good afternoon, Miss Granger. Mr Potter. Have a seat.”

They acquiesced, and the McGonagall eyed them fastidiously over the top of her spectacles. “What is it I can do for you both?”

Harry immediately hesitated.

“We, er… We’re here on behalf of Luna Lovegood,” Hermione said slowly. “She wanted to propose… an idea.”

And the Headmistress listened silently as she and Harry explained the concept of the memorial celebration. She tilted her head to the side when Harry mentioned holding it in the Great Hall, and nodded briefly when Hermione suggested speaking at the event, but otherwise remained stoic, her hands clasped on the desk, austere eyes blinking through square glasses.

Finally, she sat back, folding her arms. There was silence for a moment, and Hermione didn’t realise she was bouncing her knee until Harry shot her an uneasy look.

“Have you considered that we would need a team of people to lead such an event? And as I am sure you are both aware, the faculty are far too busy with reparations and pedagogic responsibilities this year.”

“I’ll do it,” Hermione blurted.

McGonagall turned her gaze on her. “You are doing seven N.E.W.T.s, Miss Granger. Even you have limits.”

“Then we’ll do it together,” she said, blushing. “Me, Luna Lovegood, Parvati Patil, Harry, you’ll help, won’t you?”

“I-”

“See?” said Hermione. “We want to do this. And I’m sure Ginny and Neville would too. And even – even Draco Malfoy. If I asked.”

Harry’s stare bored into her peripheral vision. There was another long silence while the Headmistress regarded them both.

“Are you aware that Miss Lovegood has already approached me about this idea?” McGonagall asked eventually, fingering the quill on the desk before her.

“I – we – she has?” Hermione stammered.

The Headmistress nodded. “I commended her on her display of emotional wisdom and suggested that it would be beneficial to get you involved. All three of you.”

She heard Harry suck in a breath.

“Where is the remaining third of your trio?” McGonagall asked.

Hermione’s heart sank. “Um, he, I, we… I haven’t seen him lately.”

“You mean since he left the Hospital Wing after a blazing argument?” McGonagall looked almost amused at the look on Hermione’s face. “Madam Pomfrey is more attuned to teenage disagreements than you give her credit for.”

Hermione looked steadfastly down into her lap.

“I will tell you the same thing that I told Miss Lovegood. The three of you are the most recognisable symbol of our triumph in the war,” she continued. “For this to truly be a celebratory event, it is intrinsically important that you are all there.”

“I don’t see why-” Hermione started, but was immediately shut down with a glare.

“You are commonly regarded as the three saviours of the wizarding world, and as such, would be expected to speak at an event of this kind. How would it appear if the two of you were to speak about the lives of people we lost in the war, and Mr Weasley was nowhere in sight? Considering the loss of his brother, other students who have lost friends and family will likely be looking to him at this time. If you really want to put together a celebration that encourages people to grieve in a healthy way, I would suggest that getting Mr Weasley on board is absolutely vital.”

“Professor,” said Harry. “I don’t think Ron would want to-”

“Have you asked?”

There was a silence.

“I want this memorial celebration to go ahead,” said McGonagall sincerely, “but I cannot ignore the fact that the wizarding world expects you three to remain a team, a symbol of all we have fought for and achieved. A fragmented unit would only lead to gossip, unease, and potentially even undermine the very purpose of this event. I suggest that either all three of you contribute, or none at all.”

“Right,” said Hermione. She and Harry exchanged a glance.

“If that is all?” McGonagall said, and Harry leapt to his feet as if electrocuted.

“Thanks, Professor,” he mumbled. Hermione got up to follow him.

Getting Ron involved was an impossible task. Even if he would have felt comfortable going up to speak about his brother before, which Hermione highly doubted, the chances of him agreeing after everything that had happened since were miniscule.

“Miss Granger, wait a moment, if you please.”

Hermione’s heart stuttered. She threw a puzzled glance a Harry, who shrugged and slunk out of the room, and she shrank once more into her seat.

“I received an application for the post of Professor of Muggle Studies today,” McGonagall said abruptly, once the door had closed behind him.

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Oh, that’s great-”

“I declined.”

“I- ah.”

“Mm,” said McGonagall. She quirked a thin grey eyebrow at her. “I wanted to ask you what your future prospects involve? It is March, after all, and you will need to decide what career you wish to pursue after your N.E.W.T.s.”

“Oh, Professor, I’m flattered, but I-”

“I was not offering you the role, Miss Granger. Do not worry yourself. I was merely curious what your future plans involve.”

“Oh.” Hermione closed her mouth, cheeks reddening, and fiddled bashfully with a loose thread on her sleeve. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” she admitted. “I think I’m just… not ready to go and get a job or start a career.”

“I see,” said McGonagall. “You may be reassured to know that you are far from the only student in your position. The chaos and uncertainty of the last few years appears to have made many young witches and wizards nervous about leaving full time education.”

Hermione shifted in her seat. “What would you suggest, Professor?”

“I would suggest that you know best what path to take,” she answered, then leaned forwards, hands folding on the desk. “But remember that muggle higher education is an option.”

Hermione felt as if the world had stopped turning.

Muggle university.

The life she had always planned for herself before she had ever found out about the magic in her veins.

Her future.

“The school has many links with universities across the country, and further afield. With your academic ability, we would have no problem seeing you into any institution that you desire. It could be a chance to develop further study and understanding before resuming your place in the wizarding world, where I understand you receive more attention than you wish. I firmly believe that the non-magical world has a lot that we can learn from, and I wonder if may help you feel more ready for a future career.”

“That’s-” Hermione swallowed. “Thank you, Professor.”

“Of course.” She lifted a hand and gestured to the door, and Hermione rose from her seat.

“Wait, Professor? Why was the Muggle Studies post relevant?”

McGonagall looked at her over the top of her glasses. “Because I gave the applicant the same advice as yourself. He needed more real-world experience before I could consider offering him the role.”

Hermione’s mouth went dry. “Who-?”

“The applicant was Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione blinked at her in shocked silence.

Draco had applied to be Muggle Studies Professor.

No wonder his mother had been shell-shocked. Why on Earth would he do something like that? He had no experience of muggle culture, muggle life-

McGonagall had told him to get more experience. Would he go to a muggle university? Would he need help there? A guide? Would this all somehow fit together?

And before she could help it, her mind had conjured up an idea of what life could be like, a student out in the muggle world, at a nameless university with Draco, not forced to confine their friendship to the shadows, no one there to judge or fret, maybe with time and space for something _more_ -

In that moment, she missed him so much that she _ached_.

She had to see him.

* * *

“Hermione?” asked Harry, when she reached the bottom of the staircase. “Is everything alright?”

“I don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “I’m – thinking.”

He eyed her uneasily. Her face must have shown all the conflicting thoughts and emotions in her head, because he cleared his throat. “I’ll walk with you,” he muttered.

They set off towards the infrequently used East end of the corridor.

“I think it’s a non-starter,” said Harry unhappily. “I’m sorry.”

“-What?”

“Getting Ron involved. I’ll ask him, of course, but I… I can’t hold out too much hope.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, with the odd sensation that her mind was as out of control as a kite in the wind, strings sliding out of her grasp. “Yeah.”

They turned a corner and kept walking, footfalls dull thuds against the stone.

“What did she say?” Harry asked. “You seem… off.”

She folded her arms against her chest, feeling every thudding heartbeat against her ribs as they walked. “I – McGonagall told me that Draco applied to teach Muggle Studies.”

Harry gawked at her. “You’re not serious.” She stayed silent, and he puffed out a breath. “Why did she tell you?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

The corridor stretched out endlessly before them.

“I just…” she continued. “Why Muggle Studies? He prefers _potions_. He doesn’t know a thing about muggles.”

“Apart from what you’ve told him,” Harry said.

She didn’t answer.

“Have you seen him lately?”

“I… I couldn’t face him.”

“Maybe,” Harry suggested, “It’s his way of trying to-”

And then they rounded a corner, and Hermione’s eyes fell on a shaded alcove up ahead.

An alcove currently occupied.

Hermione’s heart stopped.

A gentle pale hand traced over a warm bronze cheek, eager lips seeking purchase on the delicate skin above a shirt collar as their bodies slotted together, caressing and grasping and exploring.

Beside her, Harry let out an odd sort of yelp and whirled around on the spot.

And then the girl with her back to Hermione gasped and turned abruptly, long silky black hair rippling over her shoulder.

Parvati’s mahogany eyes widened.

And behind her, looking equally shocked…

Pansy.

Pansy Parkinson, with her sleek bob, and her moss-green eyes, and her pink cheeks.

Pansy Parkinson, who Hermione had been so sure, so convinced, had wanted Draco.

Pansy Parkinson, in a dark corner of the castle, with her arms wrapped around Hermione’s best friend, lips plump and blushed from kissing _Parvati Patil_.

Oh, Hermione was an _idiot_.

“Oh, shit, sorry!” she gasped, backing up, her heart beginning to hammer.

“It’s okay!” Parvati said quickly, eyes still wide. She brushed frantically at the side of her mouth, sending a sidelong glance at Pansy, who was clearly trying not to grin and failing.

“You two-” Hermione broke off. “I had no idea, I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t apologise,” Pansy said, seeming almost delighted at having been caught. She adjusted her askew sweater. “It’s kind of down to you that this happened, anyway, so-”

“How long?” Hermione breathed.

Parvati rubbed the back of her neck. “Um. Since that day in the Prefects’ Bathroom,” she admitted. “I’m sorry, I should have told you before-”

Hermione felt as if she might be swaying on the spot. “Does this mean…” All cohesive thoughts had flown from her brain, and there was only one thing she knew how to say. “Pansy, are you a lesbian?”

And then Pansy was doubling up in laughter. “Whatever gave you that idea?” she snorted, and Parvati let out a mortified giggle.

“I’m sorry!” Hermione cried, hot embarrassment flooding through her veins. “I thought – I thought you and Draco-”

“Oh, Merlin, no!” Pansy breathed. “Salazar, no wonder you hadn’t been getting my hints!”

“What hints?” Hermione croaked.

Pansy and Parvati exchanged glances.

“My lips are sealed,” Pansy said. “But only because I know Draco would _kill_ me.”

Hermione’s head was spinning.

Draco wanted to teach Muggle Studies.

Pansy was with Parvati.

They were two new puzzle pieces, but Hermione’s head was too busy, too full, to fit them together. She couldn’t breathe, let alone think.

“Alright, Potter?” Pansy smirked.

Harry looked like he wanted to melt through the floor. “I don’t know what’s happening,” he said quietly.

“Sometimes girls kiss other girls,” explained Pansy, looking for all the world like a cat who’d gotten the cream.

“I know-” he blurted.

“And sometimes boys kiss boys,” she continued. “And sometimes a boy and a girl kiss one another, and the girl runs away because she’s an idiot, and the boy is also an idiot and so they just sit and _pine_ -”

“Pansy,” said Hermione stiffly, tension rising in her chest. “Where can I find Draco?”

Pansy grinned. “I’m not too sure,” she answered. “I was a little preoccupied before you got here.”

Hermione’s mind was swirling, thoughts caught like fallen leaves in the wind, each one bearing a moment she’d never really given much of a thought to, but which were now so monumental that she could barely think.

_Come on. We’re past this._

_Is that what we are? Friends?_

_You deserve to be listened to._

_Missing your company._

_You were in so much pain and there was just nothing I could do_

_So much for selfish reasons._

_I don’t think you know what it’ll do to me._

_Someone who truly respects you should be able to hear the truth._

_Don’t you think I feel the same way?_

_There’s something I need to tell you._

Her breath caught.

_The right person can see that those flaws are the same things that make you great. And that person won’t have to ignore your flaws just to love you._

Her heart stuttered.

_Just to love you._

Deep in her pocket, she fingered the edge of a scrap of parchment, an essay that she had read so many times it was as if she knew it by heart.

_I would have had choices…_

“Harry,” she said shakily. “Can I use the Marauder’s Map?”

He blinked at her. “I- okay. Are you… alright?”

“Just – please,” she said. “Now.”

_And I would have made good ones._

He fished uncertainly in his robes for a moment and she grabbed the map from him, whispering the requisite words and unfolding the parchment, scanning and searching frantically until she found the two little footprints that she wanted to see more than any other.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and then she was thrusting the map back at him.

And ignoring the stunned expressions of Harry, Pansy, and Parvati behind her, she took a tentative step forward, and then another. Her footsteps grew more determined, more desperate, and then she was breaking into a run along the corridor, hair flying out behind her, only one thought in her mind.

_She had to find Draco._

* * *

He was in the artifact room.

She could laugh if she wasn’t so petrified.

Her shoes pounded the floor as she ran, taking the stairs two at a time, breath tearing itself from her lungs.

Puzzle pieces were slotting in all around her, and she was missing something vital still, something to make it all make sense, but she was so close, she was _so nearly there_. And all she needed now was _him_.

When the artifact room came into view, her pace stuttered and fell, the doubts and fears and nerves buckling in her chest. She slowed to a walk.

He was in there.

He wasn’t with Pansy.

He had applied for a job as Muggle Studies Professor.

He had-

Hermione had reached the door of the artifact room, and he was there, crouched on the floor, looking up at her in shock. His hair was soft, curving perfectly over his forehead, his face gentle, his jaw clean and entrancing, his eyes wide and open. He was beautiful.

It had been three weeks since the fight. Since the argument. Since she had spent the night curled against him.

Three weeks of pretending not to miss him, of pretending not to think about him, of pretending not to burn for him, not to long for him-

Not to _love_ him.

“Hermione?” he asked, and she walked forwards on shaky legs.

And as soon as she did, she realised what she was walking into.

Gone was the rubble. Gone was the shattered glass and twisted plastic, the piles of mess and destruction and hate. And instead there were display cases and pinboards, great gleaming boxes and cabinets of artifacts, and small, intricate labels, and metal frames, all ordered and stacked and _fixed_.

“Did you do this?” she whispered.

He swallowed. And nodded.

“You fixed it,” she breathed. Her legs carried her in of their own accord, and she walked around the perimeter of the room, brushing tentative fingers over each intact object.

“It was bothering you,” he said softly, as if that explained everything.

Another missing piece. He had fixed the Artifact Room.

She traced her fingers across the lid of another display case, wending her way slowly, inevitably, towards him, mapping out the journey in the artifacts of her own world.

“I missed you,” she admitted, not quite able to meet his eyes. “So much.” He got unsteadily to his feet.

Another box.

Another frame.

“Why did you do this?” she breathed. “This is so much work. No one else seemed to care. Why…?”

His mouth opened.

Closed.

His eyes blazed.

She was getting closer.

“Why did you apply for Professor of Muggle Studies?”

Another cabinet.

“Why… why didn’t you tell me about Pansy?”

She stopped.

“Why did you apologise to me,” she whispered, “when _I_ kissed you _back_?”

She was less than a foot away. And he didn’t answer. His eyes were wide and vulnerable, but the arch of his brow was guarded, ready to shut himself away again at any moment. He slowly laid his wand down, not meeting her gaze.

“Draco, I…” she pleaded. “Say something.” Her voice cracked, like a million tiny splinters of glass were piercing her throat.

He took a tentative, vulnerable breath, and Hermione willed the pounding in her heart to quiet, because she didn’t want to miss a single word. She was fairly sure she was shaking.

“There are so many things I’m sorry for,” he murmured, and Hermione found herself lost in the movement of his lips. “For what I did. What I said. I’m so sorry that I hurt you. That I made you stay away from me for so long... that I didn’t come and find you, didn’t tell you before.”

Her heart floundered within her lungs.

“And I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about the job application, or this room, or that Pansy was only ever a friend,” he continued. He wet his lips, eyes burning into hers. “But most of all I... I’m sorry that I apologised for kissing you." Hermione couldn't look away from him. "Because I lied," he said firmly. "I’m not sorry at all.”

Her heart was molten behind her ribs. She stared at him, at the way his chest rose and fell, the way his hair cast delicate shadows over his forehead, the set of his jaw and the precipice of his lips. “Why not?” she breathed.

This time, he didn’t say a word. But his gaze was the loudest thing Hermione had ever heard.

And it spoke the truth.

“You love me,” she whispered.

Her voice was so quiet in comparison that she almost couldn’t believe she had said it.

There was a drumming in her ears, her own heartbeat amplified a thousandfold in her head. She couldn’t breathe. It was everything she had feared and resented and _yearned_ for, and it was too much, too precious. Too delicate.

It was as if the slightest breath from either of them could shatter it into pieces.

She needed him to tell her she was wrong, to laugh and to break the vulnerable thread between them, to sweep it away like a cobweb.

But he just kept staring at her, like she was something bright and wonderful and wholly indescribable.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and it was like a religious confession, a breathless, whispered slipping of words from somewhere entirely visceral. “I want to keep on spending time with you, and making you laugh, and listening to you talk about things that matter to you, and telling you the things I don’t tell anyone else, and probably fucking up, and apologising, and telling you I-”

He broke off. The world was spinning, and the sky had fallen.

“But I don’t want to keep doing those things as your friend,” he breathed. He squeezed his eyes shut, and when they opened again, his pupils were the only thing Hermione could see. “I want to… I want you to be happy, but I want it to be with me.”

Hermione’s heart bloomed into her throat, and she was so dizzy that a true fear hit her for a second that she might faint.

And then it came. Draco looked at her like he was looking straight through to her very essence. There was a desperate wonder in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, and a million tiny butterflies imploded in the pit of Hermione’s stomach. “Because I know I’m wrong for you.” His voice caught. “I know I should keep quiet, and move on, and let you go and live your wonderful, amazing life. But I… I’m selfish. So you don’t have to say anything, you can leave, and… I’ll understand. But you should know that I... I think I love you.”

In that moment, Hermione felt as if the world could end and she wouldn't notice.

She had never heard a confession sound so much like a goodbye.

Because it was as if he thought that saying the words aloud would dissolve it all to dust, melt it to morning mist. As if he was letting go of everything he had hoped for.

Like he couldn’t possibly expect her to feel the same.

Because she was the golden girl. Wasn’t she?

She was predictable.

She was supposed to end up with the boy next door, the boy who would stroke her hair, and tell her she was pretty when she wasn’t, and propose to her after finishing school, and marry her in the summertime, and raise her children and her grandchildren.

She was supposed to be content with that.

And she wasn’t supposed to give it up for Draco.

Because Draco was a risk. He could be cold, and cruel, and callous when he wanted to be. He could lash out in self-defence, and he would never sugar-coat the truth, and he would still be figuring some things out for a while yet, because he had spent most of his life believing that people like her were beneath him.

But to her, he was desire and longing, a kindred spirit, the heart-racing adrenaline of breaking the rules, a delicate whispered promise, a midnight rendezvous, a kiss that tasted of whiskey, a thundering secret, a touch that struck her very soul into rapture. He understood her in a way that no one else did, without any words needing to be exchanged. Draco was wild and fierce and unknown, and he burned and froze all at once.

And Hermione wanted him so badly she could barely breathe.

She wet her lips, pulse shivering and jerking beneath her skin. “You’re not selfish,” she whispered.

His eyes met hers then, piercing her more than ever before.

“But if you are, that makes two of us.”

And something trembled deep in her bones as she teetered at the threshold of the truth that she had wanted for so, so long; the truth that had terrified and tormented her, the truth that threatened everything she was supposed to want. “Because I’ve spent all year running away from how I feel about you, and hurting people because of it,” she continued.

He was moving even closer, disbelief etched into his features.

She wanted to say it. She _needed_ to say it. But her voice trembled and collapsed.

“Do you-” she whispered. “Do you know how _breathless_ you make me?”

And then he reached out, lips parting, and his hand was under her jaw, thumb brushing along the line of her cheekbone, electricity jumping at his touch. And Hermione was done with putting logic and reason and ‘ _should’s_ in front of her feelings.

“I think I’m in love with you too,” she breathed.

The words expanded out, echoed, filled the space between them.

And Hermione didn’t know who moved first, but then his lips were on hers, and her heart was blooming and bursting into rich technicolour, and she was seeing stars, and it felt like-

 _Finally_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all as excited as I am!  
> I'm writing the last couple of chapters now which I always find the hardest - I could really use your kind words in the comments if you have a moment!  
> As always, thank you so so much for reading and supporting me! I love each and every one of you!


	19. 'Your Subtlety Astounds Me'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, okay first of all I have to say a billion thank yous for the response to the last chapter! I'm so so glad you're liking it as it's all coming together! I was literally jumping for joy at some of the wonderful words, you all make me so happy!  
> Here's to chapter 19! Enjoy :D

Kissing Draco was every bit as exhilarating and heart-stopping as she remembered, and yet somehow even more so. Because it wasn’t rushed, wasn’t shaped with the taste of Firewhiskey, wasn’t on borrowed time. It was deliberate, and it was purposeful, and it roared with the volume of a hundred things Hermione had been terrified to say aloud.

He was almost gentle, almost reverent in the way his fingers slid into her hair, the way he drew her towards him, the way she could taste the wonder on his lips, but it was also desperate, fuelled by some inexorable need to be closer, and his breath came in gasps as he starved himself of air just to kiss her.

Her heart had taken flight, drawn onwards and upwards, and she feathered her fingers against his chest, his jaw, this ache of want that had pursued her for so many months finally having found its home. She curved up into him, an unrooted noise buffeting its way from her mouth, and he kissed it from her hungrily, every bit of her gusting with joy and desire.

It was as if the time and space that had passed since their last kiss had been blown away in an instant, rendered insignificant and meaningless, because surely this was the only way to live, wrapped in Draco’s arms, seeking his lips over and over again.

When he drew back momentarily, their eyes locked, and Hermione couldn’t help but smile timidly. And then he was grinning too, and she could feel it under her tongue as she leaned in once again.

“I’m sorry that it took me so long,” she whispered eventually, when she had to catch her breath. “I’m not very brave with this kind of thing.”

“It’s alright,” he murmured. “I’m not very brave either.”

She looked at him.

“I guess we can figure it out together, can’t we?” she suggested softly, and the most delicate, overjoyed smile bloomed into existence on his lips.

“I can’t wait,” he said, so quietly. And then he drew her close, and they simply clung to one another, there in the middle of the newly repaired artifact room. Which, really, was where it had all begun.

* * *

Hermione hadn’t wanted to leave, but they’d parted ways eventually, once Draco had finally stopped catching her hand and pulling her back in for a kiss every time she tried to say goodnight.

It was incredible to be able to kiss him simply because she _could_ , incredible that she got to experience this heart-stopping, exhilarating thing not just once, but over and over again. She couldn’t resist leaning in, melting in his arms, and his eyes were warm and delighted and so _in love_ when he finally watched her leave, a smile on his face.

Hermione still felt half stunned for the entire walk back to her dormitory, but when she climbed into bed and drew the curtains around her, a smile conquered her lips and stayed firmly put. She could have spent hours grinning relentlessly up at the hangings.

She had kissed Draco, and he had kissed her back.

She _loved_ him.

It was crazy, and unbelievable, and she still didn’t quite fully understand quite how this had happened, but it had. And she was ridiculously, uncontrollably, effervescently _happy_.

Even the uncertainties around how this was going to work or where they were going to go from here couldn’t ruin it. Because when it came to Draco, the not knowing was _okay_. She trusted him. She trusted _both_ of them.

Their friendship had been a lot more than that for some time. But now they had the chance to explore what it all meant, how this would work, and what they _wanted_.

She had hardly dared to let herself consider it before, but now, she was allowed.

She could want him in any way she desired.

There was still a guilt, a moment of sadness for everything she had never wanted with Ron, but it paled in significance compared to the unbridled joy and excitement of all the possibilities with Draco.

There had been a time when she had worried that she was broken, had been scared that her lack of interest in anything physical with Ron was _just the way she was_. Assumed that she should just get over it, get on with it, and never expect anything different. And now, confronted with the dizzying spiral of her heart at the thought of Draco’s chest under her palm, the feel of his lips against her neck, the idea of sliding her robes off her shoulders…

She was fully capable of want and desire and lust with the right person. 

It wasn’t wrong to want this with Draco.

It wasn’t wrong to have _not_ wanted this with Ron.

She was human. She was capable, and she was fallible.

Her desire for intimacy had always existed, but before, it had always been shrouded and hidden, because it just wasn’t _right_. And now, faced with someone she was attracted to, who made her heart leap, who elicited such sparks with every trace of his fingertips… It had all been thrown into stark relief.

And when they figured this out, when she knew where life was taking her, when they talked about it, understood one another exactly…

It _would_ be right.

And she couldn’t wait.

* * *

“Knock knock.”

Hermione blinked her eyes open.

“Did you just say, ‘knock knock’?” she asked disbelievingly, sitting up blearily. “What time is it?”

And then someone’s face appeared through a gap in the hangings of her bed. Pansy Parkinson’s disembodied head took one look at Hermione and gasped.

“Parvati, get over here! She’s only gone and snogged him!”

Parvati’s delighted face appeared beside her. “You have!” she enthused.

Hermione felt the blush burn in her cheeks. “Keep your voices down!”

“Relax,” snorted Pansy, yanking the hangings back to reveal the two of them and plopping herself down on the end of Hermione’s bed. “I announced that I planned on ravishing Parvati and everyone else cleared off pretty quick.”

Hermione blinked. “You mean you’re telling people you’re together now?”

“Yeah,” beamed Parvati settling herself down beside her girlfriend. “We just wanted to make sure you and Draco knew before anyone else did, so now you do… we thought there wasn’t any point trying to keep it secret!”

“I’m so pleased for you,” said Hermione, and while Parvati laughed and squeezed her hand, Pansy snorted.

“Enough about us already,” she said wickedly. “I’ve been waiting to hear some sort of getting-together story for weeks and I won’t let you deprive me a moment longer.”

“I-” Hermione blushed. “He fixed the muggle artifact room.”

“Boring,” yawned Pansy, at the same time as Parvati’s eyes widened and she breathed-

“Really?!”

“Yeah. He knew how much it bothered me, so he spent all this time repairing it, even though we were already in trouble with McGonagall for the repairs we’d been doing before. And I walked in and I…”

“You snogged him?!”

“No! Yes. Well, not immediately.”

Pansy grinned lecherously. “Excellent. Any hanky panky?”

“No!” Hermione cried.

Pansy and Parvati exchanged glances. “I told you the tea leaves don’t lie,” said Parvati. “It won’t be for another few weeks at least.”

Hermione gaped at her. “Have you been using divination to determine the status of my sex life?”

“No,” lied Parvati.

“Obviously,” said Pansy, at the same time. “What else is divination good for?”

Parvati pretended to look affronted. “You take that _back_.”

Hermione put her head in her hands.

“Hey, don’t worry,” soothed Parvati. “You’ll have a very nice time when it does happen.”

“…Thanks,” said Hermione weakly.

“More to the point,” said Pansy. “Are you going to go public?”

And Hermione cringed. “I think it’s too soon. With Ron, you know.”

Parvati’s eyes softened. “You still care about him a lot, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Hermione sighed. “I don’t want to hurt him more than I already have.”

“In the kindest way, Granger,” said Pansy. “Wait no, scratch that, this isn’t kind at all. You’re _going_ to hurt him. It’s unavoidable. He loves you, and you’ve left him for a guy who literally bullied him for seven years. That’s pretty shitty.”

Hermione blinked at her. “Your subtlety astounds me, Pansy.”

Parvati snorted.

“Look, I know that this whole thing is… horrible,” Hermione admitted. “And one day I’ll… I’ll talk to Ron about it. At some point. But right now it’s still too fresh, I think it would just be rubbing his face in it. It needs more time. And, you know, there’s also the fact that Draco and I literally only just kissed, it’s not like wedding bells are on the horizon or anything.”

Parvati mumbled something about tea leaves under her breath.

“Can I ask?” Hermione said suddenly, sitting up straighter and locking eyes with Pansy. “Why didn’t anyone correct me when I thought you and Draco were an item? Clearly you all… knew better.”

“I assumed you knew I was gay,” said Pansy simply. “I realise now that the lack of pronouns when I talked about asking Parvati out may have been misleading.”

Parvati grinned at her. “And I suppose I tried to tell you,” she said. “But it wasn’t my place to out someone else, you know, I didn’t know if Pansy wanted that. So I settled for saying that I didn’t think Draco was her type…”

“And I assumed I knew better,” sighed Hermione. “I’m so sorry.”

They both laughed at her. “At least you know now,” Parvati grinned. “It’ll all be fine.”

And Hermione allowed herself a shy grin. “Just as long as you two don’t go blurting it out,” she joked. “You’re not exactly known for subtlety.”

Pansy folded her arms. “Hey. I’ve literally had my bra off in eight different classrooms in the last fortnight and no one had any idea.”

“Eight?” Parvati teased.

“Alright,” Pansy conceded, unabashed. “Five or six. But my point still stands!” 

Hermione couldn’t help herself from falling about in giggles.

* * *

From that day onwards, Hermione’s concentration and focus went severely downhill.

If it wasn’t catching Draco’s eye in Potions and dropping all seven sevenths of the Sopophorous bean that she’d painstakingly separated into her cauldron, it was seeing him smile out of the corner of her eye in Muggle Studies and knocking her inkwell onto the floor.

Her stomach fizzed and bubbled with excitement at the very idea of seeing him, and when his hand brushed hers on her way out of class, she very nearly collapsed, her mouth going dry.

He turned to smirk at her, and then with a frantic look about the corridor to make sure no one was watching, she grabbed his sleeve, yanked him into an alcove, and kissed him to within an inch of his life.

When she broke away, flustered and short of breath, he could do nothing but stare at her, a dazed grin on his face and a flush rising up beneath his collar.

“You,” she said, “are going to make me fail my N.E.W.T.s.”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her back to press a kiss to her cheek. “Worth it.”

And then her knees turned to jelly and walking away was one of the hardest things she’d ever done.

And she had made fucking _Polyjuice potion_.

_Twice_.

* * *

They went back to studying on separate tables in the library, simply because being within a metre of him resulted in neither of them getting any work done at all.

For the most part, it helped her retain some semblance of productivity, but on the odd moments they looked up at the same time, Hermione would suddenly conveniently forget whatever she was supposed to be doing and end up doodling absently at the top of her parchment for the next five minutes.

Towards the end of the week, Hermione had finally started making strides with an exceptionally difficult Transfiguration essay when she heard a ‘ _psst’_ and realised that Draco was nowhere to be seen.

But a brief glance around her revealed a pair of silver eyes looking mischievously at her through a nearby bookshelf.

With a last half-hearted glance at her essay, she got to her feet and followed him into the stacks.

“Are you _determined_ to keep distracting me?!”

Try as she might, Hermione couldn’t quite muster up the willpower to be properly annoyed when Draco’s hands were suddenly around her waist and he was kissing her back into the bookshelves.

“We could be seen,” she said feebly, her heart racing with delight.

“The library’s empty,” he murmured against her lips. “No one studies at 8:30pm on a Friday evening.”

“ _I_ do,” she insisted.

He pulled back, one eyebrow quirked. “Would you like to go back to your essay?”

Her reluctant silence told him everything he needed to know, and he leaned back in again, his hand curving around her hip and his lips chasing hers. And it was so natural, so easy, the way her fingers grazed his temple and carded into his hair, the way her knees shifted so he could slot closer, the way she arched up into him.

They were both considerably dishevelled when they finally broke for air.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all year,” Draco admitted smugly.

“What, shove me into a bookcase?” she scoffed. “No you haven’t.”

“I have,” he protested. “Since Slughorn’s party, at least.”

She grinned. “Slughorn got you in the mood, did he?”

“Oh yeah,” Draco smirked, and suddenly Hermione’s throat was rather dry again. “Or maybe it was something to do with the dress you were wearing.”.

She blinked at him. “What? That green one?”

“ _That green one_ ,” he murmured, “has been on my mind every week since.”

“You lie,” she said, pleased.

“That night is why that ridiculous Weasley bubblegum tastes like mead,” he confessed.

She blinked again. “ _Oh_.”

“Oh,” he grinned.

“And the Danish pastry?”

“You brought me two,” he said quietly. “Remember? In the library. It was the first time I thought… maybe we could be friends.”

And then Hermione had no choice but to yank him down to kiss him again.

* * *

The end of Friday night did not result in a finished essay, but it did result in a blush that refused to fade for several hours, and a plan to spend the next afternoon together, which Hermione imagined would mean she wouldn’t sleep all night.

She daydreamed all the way back to the common room, all the way into the dormitory, and the entire way through a brief conversation with Flora about something that she promptly forgot about when she climbed into bed.

She couldn’t take her mind off him, off the way he had felt pressed against her, the slight scratch of his jawline offset by the softness of his lips. Those soft, low noises deep in his throat that felt like they were made just for her. The barest brush of innocent fingers that might one day be less innocent at the top of her ribs, the outside of her thighs.

Draco, with his eyes, and his hair, and his jaw, and his shoulders, and his chest, and his hands-

Hermione realised very suddenly that she was aroused.

It was almost laughable, the way it had not so much dawned on her as crashed down about her ears like a bucket of cold water.

Touching herself was something that had always been abstract before, an exploratory, theoretical venture into pleasure without a draw of real-life relevance. But now, as she slid an uncertain hand down her body, her skin pebbling in response, there was a very _real_ connection. A possibility of a direct comparison between this now, as her fingers traced and looped and pressed, and the misty daydream of several hours alone with Draco, in his room, in her bed, in the library stacks, her back against the shelves.

This wasn’t just theoretical.

This was real.

And as her spine curved off the pillow, and her eyes squeezed shut, and her mind cartwheeled with imaginings of Draco here, beside her, above her… It didn’t scare her.

She wasn’t broken.

She just needed the right person.

Lips pressed together, she flopped back against the pillow, trying to steady her breathing.

She was going to need to start setting some boundaries with herself, she realised, because thinking about Draco was taking up far too much of her time.

Maybe she should slot it into her planner somewhere between ‘kiss Draco’ and ‘study with Draco’ and ‘try not to get distracted by Draco’.

* * *

The next morning, in the Gryffindor Common Room, Hermione was jolted from one of her already-frequently-recurring thoughts about Draco by a small commotion near the portrait hole.

It didn’t take long to realise who had yelled. Her heart sank in her chest but she couldn’t help herself from turning to watch, spotting Ron and Harry locked in some sort of disagreement, wearing equal expressions of frustration.

It had been building all week. Harry had openly been a lot warmer towards her since the Parvati-Pansy discovery, going so far as to smile at her in the hallways and chat to her over the dinner table, and Ron had just-as-openly disliked it.

“Absolutely not!” Ron snapped, Harry jerking back in shock. “You want to me to get up on a platform and celebrate the fact that my brother _died_?! You’re _insane_.”

Oh. It was _that_ conversation.

Hermione couldn’t tear her eyes away.

“No,” sighed Harry. “To talk about what a great man he was. And to pay our respects and celebrate the people that helped get us to this point-”

“And what point is that, exactly?” burst out Ron. “Half the castle is still in ruins, the people that died are still dead, and there’s a literal Death Eater wandering round like he did nothing wrong?! It’s a stupid idea, and I’m not doing it. If you want to make light of all the shit that happened here, then you and Hermione can do it, but not me. I’m not going to pretend that my brother died for some great noble reason. He was fucking _murdered_.”

“I _know_ that, Ron-”

“Just like your parents, and Sirius, and all the other people we lost! I’d expect this of Hermione, honestly, but you-”

Hermione jolted, anger flashing through her veins with the heat of dragon’s breath. And she was just on the brink of marching over to give Ron a piece of her mind, breakup-be-damned, when someone else beat her to it.

Ginny stood in front of him, hands on her hips, a glare on her face that could rival her mother’s.

“That was uncalled for,” she spat.

Ron’s face twisted into a murderous scowl. “I-”

“No!” interrupted Ginny. “I’ve had enough of you gatekeeping everyone else’s right to grieve! You’re not the only one with shit going on right now!” She folded her arms. “You don’t want to talk about Fred, that’s _fine_. But don’t act as if Harry and Hermione are being selfish because they want to approach things in a different way. We’ve all lost people, Ronald. And Fred was _my_ brother too.”

Ron gaped, mouth moving wordlessly.

“Just leave it,” Ginny said, quieter. “And I’ve had enough of avoiding Hermione because of you. She’s my _friend_. You’re being such a child that at this point I wouldn’t care if she had dumped you for _Filch_. I hope you grow up, and quickly, because Luna’s Celebration is going to be the best thing that’s happened to this school since the war, and it’ll be a _bloody_ shame if you’re too immature to be a part of it.”

And with that, she spun on her heel, grabbed Harry’s arm, and marched towards Hermione.

“My brother’s a jerk,” she said loudly, and then softened, reaching out to take Hermione’s hand. “I still want to be your friend, outside of whatever went down between the two of you. And I’m sorry it took me until now to realise that.”

Hermione bit her lip as she watched Ron storm away through the portrait hole. “I don’t want to come between you-”

Ginny ignored her, stepped close, and wrapped her arms around her middle. “Shush,” she said gently. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken sides.”

A lump stuck in Hermione’s throat.

“Thanks, Gin,” she said quietly, trying not to let her voice crack.

Harry gave her an embarrassed smile as the girls broke apart, running his fingers through the hair at the back of his head. “I’ll go after him in a bit,” he said quietly. “But I’m here for you too.”

_Not-crying_ suddenly got a lot harder.

Hermione sniffed. “I… I’m glad that he had you two there for him when it all happened,” she admitted. “But I’m so glad I’ve got you both again.”

There was a pause as they all grinned.

“Ugh,” said Ginny finally. “Why did I wait so long to do this? Almost a month of awkwardness goes by and then it takes literally thirty seconds to sort out. I’m the worst.”

And then Hermione couldn’t help but laugh.

* * *

As the day went on, her thoughts returned more and more frequently to exactly what she was getting up to that afternoon.

As she had predicted, getting to sleep the night before had been rather difficult with the knowledge that she and Draco would be spending time together, but she had thankfully managed at least a few successful hours of shuteye. Still, with the way her heart pounded and her veins thrummed as she descended the tower stairs that afternoon, it was as if she’d not slept a wink.

She was going to Draco’s dormitory.

The thought alone made her cheeks heat exponentially.

It was nothing sordid, nothing at all.

It was just that they’d practically spent all week in the library, so they were desperate for a change of scenery. With the news of their relationship still under wraps to the majority of the student body, most of the rest of the castle was out, which left, well… Draco’s _bedroom_.

He had given her directions, but she had to walk the length of the corridor three times and quadruple check the location before she could muster the courage to even approach his door. A few deep breaths, a silly pat-down of her hair and a tug of her skirt, and then she lifted her hand to knock.

Almost immediately, the door was pulled back, and his face appeared, mildly flushed.

“Hi,” she grinned. Excitement rose, giddy and palpable, in her chest.

“Hello,” he returned, suddenly shy as he opened the door wider. “Do you, er, want to come in?”

The space was lighter than Hermione had expected, for a room in the dungeons. Small but comfortable, it featured a four-poster bed swung with dark green drapes, an enchanted window, and a desk which appeared to have been hastily cleared, as there were several crumpled rolls of parchment stacked in a pile at one end, and several spots of spilled ink.

“Sorry it’s a bit messy,” he admitted. “I woke up a bit late, and-”

She kissed him.

She hadn’t exactly planned to, but falling forward into him suddenly felt like the most natural thing in the world, and he met her eagerly, hands going straight to her hips with a low, contented noise in his throat. When she pulled back, the shyness had dissipated like spun sugar.

“Sorry,” she grinned. “I just… keep remembering that I can just _do_ that, now.”

A soft dimple appeared in one of his cheeks. “Don’t stop.”

And the words hit her in some unexpected way, something firing in her belly. She gaped at him for a small moment before stepping closer again and pulling his jaw down so she could meet his lips, fluttering at the minute graze of stubble and the short exhale of breath that ghosted across her cheek.

It was bizarre.

She had kissed boys before.

This wasn’t new.

And yet it was _so_ new.

It was like she was hyper aware of every sensation, every tiny point of contact, every sound and touch and movement and breath, and her heart accelerated with delight at the intensity of it all. Kissing Draco was like nothing she had ever known, and with the prospect of privacy, and endless time-

God.

A small noise escaped her mouth and Draco’s hands tightened on her waist in response, gently pulling her back towards his bed. And when he sat and she settled onto the sheets beside him, her heart leapt ecstatically into her throat.

She gazed at him, lip caught between her teeth. “I-” she started. “I’ve been thinking. I should apologise for… before.”

His eyebrows rose. “What do you mean-?”

“I should have known from New Year’s Eve that… _this_ was what I wanted. I shouldn’t have pretended it was nothing and… run back to Ron.”

“Oh.” He cringed slightly. “I, er… I understand why you did.”

“I’m sorry anyway,” she insisted. Then, with a wry smile, “And I’m sorry for bringing Ron up while I’m sat on your bed-”

He snorted.

She was on Draco’s _bed_.

And only last night, in her own bed, she’d touched herself with the thought of Draco’s eyes and lips in her mind.

Her cheeks were burning again.

“What are you thinking about?” he teased, leaning closer, and she rolled her eyes, skin pebbling.

“Nothing,” she said defensively. “Just… I’m sorry. I… I hurt you. You didn’t deserve that.”

He leant back against the pillows, bringing her with him. There was an intimacy about lying face to face like this, she thought, and her pulse jumped as he kissed her forehead.

“It’s okay,” he said warmly. Then he grinned. “But then again, maybe if I hadn’t said that thing about Pansy… we might have been alright.”

Hermione cringed this time. “That’s… a fair point.” She flopped back onto the pillow. “God, I was such an idiot! I was so convinced you and Pansy were an item!”

Snorting, he traced a curl of her hair behind her ear. “It was all a bit of a mess, wasn’t it?”

“You can say that again,” she grinned.

“It was a bit of a mess,” he said, softer, lower, and then she was laughing as he kissed her, the warm weight of him against her side.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, sitting upright so suddenly that Draco recoiled in alarm. “Sorry,” she grinned. “I just remembered. Did you or did you not apply for the job of Muggle Studies Professor?”

There was a beat of silence before his cheeks bloomed pink. “I didn’t get it,” he said quickly.

“I know,” she said. “But still… you applied.”

“…Yeah.”

“I think that’s brilliant.”

He turned a shy smile on her.

“Can I ask why?” she asked gently.

And a flicker of his old mask rolled down over his face. He leaned away a little, fidgeting momentarily with the pillow beneath his head and then with the sleeve of his shirt, unable to keep still.

“I told you before about wanting to get a job, didn’t I?” he said hesitantly.

“Mm,” she said softly, scratching circles into the duvet with a fingernail. “Don’t tell me it was just to get back at your parents.”

He snorted out a laugh. “No. Well – I suppose it helps.”

She grinned and waited for him to continue.

With a sigh, he rolled onto his back. “I took Muggle Studies this year because I wanted to be able to… make up my own mind. To, er, unlearn everything that I’ve been told. I don’t want to be one of those people who lives their whole life without trying. You know, half the time I still have these instinctive thoughts that I don’t even understand the reasons for, and then when I realise it’s just something my father taught me… It makes me so _angry_.”

She reached out to place a reassuring hand on his arm.

“I’m angry that I never got the chance to learn about muggles for myself,” he continued, chewing at his lip. “That so much of my understanding of the world comes from a cruel blood purist who would… who could never see all the wonderful things that I see in you, just because of who your parents are.”

He met her eyes, and Hermione’s heart was suddenly several sizes too large again. “So taking Muggle Studies was that good first decision I told you about, remember? It was the first step to undoing all that unconscious bias. And well… I thought that maybe the next step could be… teaching it. To… others like me.”

“Oh, Draco…”

“But McGonagall’s right. I do need more experience. And that’s why I think I should go out into the muggle world for myself. Go and study at one of their universities, figure out how it all works. Goodness knows what subject I’d be any good at without prior education, but-”

“You have a way with words,” she said softly.

He blinked at her. “I- I do?”

Her cheeks very warm, Hermione squeezed his arm. “Yeah. That essay… this essay” – she pulled the ever-present scrap of parchment out of her pocket – “it was so beautifully written. I really think that you could study English. Literature or Language, I think you’d enjoy either. And you’d get to read some amazing muggle literature… It would be perfect for you.”

He reached out, folding the edge of the parchment between his fingers with an expression of disbelief, the material feathered and thinning from constant folding and unfolding. “You kept it?” he breathed.

“Of course,” she said, swallowing.

And with an expression that drew her in like the strongest gravitational force in the universe, Draco leant up, took her hand softly in his, and pulled her down, lips meeting hers with a reverence that made the air quiver.

“I love you,” he whispered against her lips. “I love you, I love you.”

Her breath shook, and she curled a hand into his feather-light hair. “ _I love you too_.”

She was never going to get enough of this.

He brushed a gentle hand at her waist, just close enough that she felt the hum of his fingertips against her skin, and dipped to press a kiss against her clavicle, within the curve of her collar. Her breath stuttered.

He shifted the weight of her body above his, mouth against her neck, his knee rising in an act that wasn’t entirely innocent, and her heart swelled, pulse quickening at the press of his thigh between her legs. She trailed heated fingertips up his body, one hand coming to rest at arch of his jaw, and she dipped to kiss him again.

It was like this was everything she had been missing. Whereas things with Ron had felt overwhelming, too close, too draining, this just… fitted. It was easy, and natural, and right. And as her pulse began to race, and she felt his answering heartbeat drum against her chest, there was no anxiety, no fear, no self-consciousness.

Only the excitement and giddiness of exploration.

She let a courageous hand wander under the hem of his shirt and he gasped into her mouth, hips jolting up in a way that sent spirals of intrigue and arousal skidding through her body.

“We should…” he murmured, pressing a final kiss to her jaw and then reluctantly lowering his head to the pillow. “Before I get carried away, we should talk about… this stuff.”

She slid to his side and propped her head up with one hand. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” he murmured, rubbing self-consciously at the back of his neck. “What you’re okay with, and what you’re not. I mean, with the er, the _itch_ you talked about… I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, you know?”

“Oh-!”

Shyness permeated through her skin. She was oddly taken aback by the question, pleasantly surprised that he had asked, and yet somehow finding it almost… _unnecessary_ , when the truth of the matter was that the ‘itch’ hadn’t even so much as vaguely occurred to her.

He carefully let go of her waist, seemingly misreading her expression. “Sorry,” he said lowly.

“No!” she said quickly. “Um. Look.” She was doing the whole honesty thing now, right? _Even_ when it was embarrassing. She looked at him and sighed. _Especially_ when it was embarrassing. “Here’s the thing,” she said slowly. “I… I’m actually okay with, er, everything.”

He blinked.

“Wait!” she said quickly, a bizarre giggle threatening to burst forth. “No, I didn’t mean that. Er. This is hard. Um. I’m fine with everything so far, I mean…” She sighed, pushing a falling lock of hair out of her face. “I’m more comfortable with you… like this… than I’ve ever been before,” she admitted. “With anyone.”

He waited, but Hermione knew him too well by now not to recognise the smug grin forming at the corner of his lips.

“Basically… this is great,” she admitted shyly. “I… I _love_ this. So much. And I promise that I’ll let you know if I’m ever unsure about something. But I… the truth is that I…” She looked away, cheeks burning. “I want this. And that’s a… a new feeling. But I want to figure it out with you.”

Draco looked as if he could cast about a thousand Patronuses at once.

“It’s obviously a bit new and scary,” she admitted, unable to prevent a grin at his expression. “And I don’t really know what I’m doing, because I… obviously, I’ve never gone… all the way before, or even barely any of the way, really, so-”

“-Y-you haven’t?!” he blurted, a blush creeping rapidly over his features.

Now it was her turn to blink at him.

“You…” she tailed off, mind spinning back to their previous conversations of this nature. “You didn’t know?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “…No. I thought you said you… you went, um. _Further_. One time.”

“ _Oh_.”

“But obviously I didn’t know what that entails, and I shouldn’t have assumed, and you don’t need to tell me-”

“Draco?”

He paused. “Mm?”

“I’ve never touched a penis before.”

Silence.

And then they were both bursting into laughter, Draco flinging an arm over his face in embarrassment.

* * *

Recovering took far too long, because every time they made eye contact she’d dissolve into hysterical giggles all over again while he snorted with laughter. Eventually, Hermione laid back, ribs aching, grinning at the ceiling.

“Sorry,” she said, grinning wryly. “We were having a serious conversation.”

“I enjoyed the less-serious,” he teased, and she snorted again.

“Stop it, or I’m never going to stop laughing. Um. What was I saying?”

“Something about me being really sexy?”

“Pfft, I’ve never said that!”

“Only to Parvati.”

Hermione gasped. “You-!”

He smirked again. “ _Most_ of your secrets are safe with her, don’t worry. Just… one or two make their way to Pansy… and from Pansy, well…”

“You little sneak,” she growled. “Is nothing sacred?”

He rolled towards her again, a gentle hand curving around her waist and a smile on his face. “Sorry. I’ll stop interrupting you. What were you saying?”

She pressed a kiss to his nose, grinning shyly. “Ugh. Fine. Um. I suppose it all comes down to… This feels great.” She shot him an embarrassed smile. “I’m loving it. And I promise that I’ll tell you as soon as I ever start _not_ liking anything. Is that okay?”

He was unable to keep the smile from his face. He leaned in again, eyelids fluttering shut, and she arched towards him. “Definitely okay,” he murmured lowly, and the now-familiar coiling in her belly tightened once more.

It occurred to Hermione that concentrating on her work was going to get even harder from now on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two chapters left! Thank you all so so much again for your support, I'll see you next Friday for chapter 20!

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this story accepts reviews/comments of people who simply enjoy their work, of course. But they are also happy to read and consider a thoughtful review of the work, even if it includes constructive criticism.


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